


The Unbroken

by casblackfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Badass Castiel, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel Has Powers (Supernatural), Cockblock Sam Winchester, Croatoan Virus (Supernatural), Croats (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Gets a Hug, Dean Winchester In Love, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Grace-Soul Bonding (Supernatural), Hand Jobs, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Dean Winchester, References to Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Romantic Dean Winchester, Romantic Gestures, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Soft Dean Winchester, Soul Bond, Strangers to Lovers, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Trust Issues, Wingfic, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28412133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casblackfeathers/pseuds/casblackfeathers
Summary: Dean’s life had been made of running. He ran from a curse that had desolated his life ever since he was a child — whenever he got hurt, he turned into a goddamn human-torch, killing everyone around him — and he ran from himself and his own self-loathing.But managing all that at the end of a world full of Croats lurking around every corner was easier said than done.Until a mysterious man with tousled dark hair paired with blue eyes as clear as the sky during a hot summer’s day stopped him from free falling, literally. In one fell swoop, the stranger had not only saved his life but also calmed the wildfire threatening to burn everything in its wake.There was something about Castiel that made Dean want to stop running but also hid something darker  — something Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on. And between soft, pillowy lips and feather-like fingerprints, Cas could very well shatter Dean’s world and maybe help save the whole world in return.Updates every Tuesday
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 134
Kudos: 127





	1. Born to Burn

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic more than a year ago, but only after the spn finale had the last push necessary to finish this. This has been an amazing ride, and I'm so proud I finally have this ready to start posting.
> 
> A new chapter will be posted each Tuesday. I only have a couple of chapters left to write, and then I'm done, so you don't have to worry about me not updating this regularly or about this ending up being a forever wip.
> 
> I want to thank my amazing beta, [deanwinchesterswitch](https://deanwinchesterswitch.tumblr.com/), without her, this fic wouldn't be half of what it is today. Thank you for your amazing work and for your incredible patience of going through each chapter over and over again.
> 
> If you'd like to say hi on tumblr or just check more updates about this fic check my blog [here](https://casblackfeathers.tumblr.com/)

#  Prologue

Dean would never forget that fateful day… no matter how many years had passed, it would be engraved on his soul — everything he did, everything he was; it would always go back to that day, twenty-five years ago.

** November 2nd, 1983 **

It started with nothing more than a whisper, like the dying cinders in a fireplace, then roared to life as the laughter grew stronger and more menacing.

“Hello?” Dean cried out, his voice frail in the wide-open space; bare, save for a single tree at its heart. “Hello?!” he persisted as he held up the old brass candle holder. The last of the wax barely kept the flame alive, the dim light almost not enough to stop the wall of darkness from devouring everything, including the small ring of light the candle provided and Dean with it.

The murmurs in his head continued, raw and shrill, scratching at his eardrums and gouging at his skull.

The air moved with a snap, rotating on its own, the breeze giving way to a rush of wind, to light up the tree behind him, the flames illuminating everything with a change so sudden Dean could not keep his eyes open more than a slit.

Then it stopped.

The flames didn’t burn, the air stopped lashing, and the tree disappeared, giving way to a dark figure. “Mommy?” Dean raised the candle holder higher, protecting the dying flames with a hand. The red and yellow flare twirled with a quiver, giving a distressed pulse of light, flickering once, twice, before disappearing completely. It left behind a dying line of smoke — and Dean, now consumed by darkness. He let go of it, glancing at the motionless figure in front of him; he couldn’t see much beyond its outline. It seemed to get closer without even moving, with hooks as hands, creeping from behind the darkness, viciously watching Dean as the walls close in around him, its sharp hooks already writhing toward him.

Dean turned and started running, begging his body not to stop, pushing his small legs to the limit. “Mommy, daddy,” he repeated to himself. “Help me.” One of the hooks snaked around his ankle, knocking him down; Dean slumped to the floor with a loud thud, all the air disappearing from his lungs; only a small yelp escaped through tremorous lips.

“It’s coming,” came the cold, anguished voice. “ _It’s coming for you.”_

Dean snapped his eyes open and sat straight up on his bed, chest rising and falling as quickly as the air hissing through his clenched teeth, his Mickey pajamas stuck to his back, dampened in sweat. He looked around between wet eyelashes, making sure he was still in the safety of his room, instinctively reaching for the necklace… still secured around his neck, its cold feel was a comfort in his hand. It was just a dream, Dean promised himself. The shadows moved around his room at a steady beat as his night light displayed a world of constellations moving faithfully against the blank surface of his ceiling, offering Dean his own starlit night.

The snarls still echoed in Dean’s ears, drumming along with his heartbeat and the faint buzz of the machine twirling beside his bed. He laid back and tucked his blanket close under his chin, too afraid to close his eyes and be pulled right back into that nightmare.

With a sigh, Dean decided to watch the window instead — the first rays of sunlight melted through the slit in the curtains. Outside, the sun was a ball of fire in the morning sky, bleeding red to the blue and purple fluffy looking clouds filling the early morning sky. Dean smiled, watching his private starlit sky one more time before turning the night light off, pretending (not for the first time) that the not-so-real stars could grant him his wish if only he thought hard enough.

Sam's muffled cry pulled Dean out of his bedroom before he had time to finish his wish.

His steps were quick along the hard floor, urgency filling the otherwise silent hallway as Dean’s small hand reached for the doorknob at his eye level, turning it and pushing the door open to be met by his mother’s back. Her long, blonde hair fell in waves along her shoulders, peacefully swaying as she whispered soothing words against Sammy’s furrowed brow.

Tears were still brimming at the edges of his eyes, but he was quiet now, sniffing away the last of his fears as Mary cradled him between her arms. “Angels are watching over you,” she said, eyes closed. “There’s nothing to fear, sweetie.” Mary used to say the same thing to Dean whenever his nightmares got loud enough to keep him awake at night.

“Mommy?” Dean said, joining his mom and little brother in the room. “Is Sammy scared again?”

Mary turned, surprise in her blue eyes, before she gave him a comforting smile. “Just a case of a gassy tummy, don’t worry.” She stroked Dean’s cheek before brushing a wayward strand of hair out of his face. “What about you? Why are you out of bed so early? Another nightmare?”

Dean shook his head, determined not to worry mommy more than needed.

Mary sighed tiredly, suddenly looking too drained to fight her older son’s tenacity. “Alright,” she conceded, making her way to Sammy’s cradle and tucking him under the covers.

Dean crossed the room, peeping through the white wooden bars on the opposite side of the bed. “Can Sammy and I play together later, mommy?” Dean sniffed the air, considering for a moment. “After he gets better.” He scrunched his face, pinching his nose. “Ew, he really smells! How can such a small baby smell this bad?”

Mary’s amused gaze fell on Dean again. “You were just like this when you were this age too.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Dean looked up at her, offended. “My poop doesn’t smell.”

Mary laughed.

“Tell that to all the diapers that you ruined,” John chimed in, coming to stand by Mary’s side.

“But dad, that was when I was a baby; I’m grown up now.”

“Well,” Mary smiled, adjusting Sammy’s blanket. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re too old to play with your brother.”

“So, can I?” His face lit up.

“Of course!”

“As long as you remember the rules,” John added.

Dean nodded solemnly. “Don’t make a noise. Never go outside. And never, ever take off my necklace.”

“That’s my boy.” John kissed the top of his head. “Now,” he motioned to the stack of wooden boards lying in the hallway just outside the bedroom. “Until Sammy recovers, you mind helping me out with these?”

“John, I don’t think he should—”

“He needs to learn these things. He’s old enough already.”

“He’s four!”

“Almost five.” Dean splayed all the fingers on one hand open. “Please, mommy.” Dean grasped Mary’s blue shirt between his fingers, making her eyes fall to his small frame. “I wan’ learn. I’m a little man now.”

Mary laughed, the melodic sound caressing Dean as she lifted him into her arms. “When did you grow up so much? If I’m not careful, one of these days you’ll say you’re leaving.”

“No, mommy, I’m never gonna leave you.” Dean hugged her tightly, sinking his nose into her long, soft hair. “I _pomise_.”

She seemed to relax against him, sighing softly before pulling away with a smile, an errant tear spilling from her eyelashes. “Alright, then.” She put him down. “You go on now… but be careful,” she added as Dean headed to the top of the stairs with his father.

Dean gave her a firm nod before turning to his father. “What we doin’, daddy?” Dean asked as John led the way down the mahogany stairs. The dark wood blended dangerously with the rest of the dimly lit room, but over the last year, Dean’s legs had learned the exact angle and distance they had to bend to take him safely from one step to the next, and he didn’t even have to watch his feet anymore. Dean had hated it at first — the lack of light, how he felt trapped inside these walls — but he was used to it now. Dean was only three when they had to flee from their home, and he missed everything about it. Each corner had been filled with light and colors, each thread of air mellowed by the lavender scent of their freshly washed clothes or with the sweet aroma of Mary’s homemade pies.

He couldn’t help the bittersweet sting in the back of his throat as he moved down the stairs; each step that resounded against the bare walls a painful reminder of how drastically their lives had changed. Dean took his eyes from the wall, and its dull light-brown smudged by red stains his mom hadn’t been able to wash off, turning his attention to his father, who was talking again.

“Some of the boards need to be replaced.” John crossed the hall, setting the boards next to the only furniture left in the room since all the others had been dismantled and used to board up the house. John entered the kitchen, taking two boards and a couple of rusty nails with him.

Dean was about to follow when a shadow brought his attention to the front door. The sunlight crept under the shallow gap between the door and the wooden floor, invading the otherwise lifeless hallway with a golden veil. Dean watched it closely, and his breath halted as he held himself steady, listening hard as it returned. The shadow stilled for a moment before shoving against the entrance door that separated it from Dean. He peeped through the shallow gap — there was a missing nail in one of the toes as whatever was outside stomped its foot on the ground. 

Dean gulped hard, instinctively taking a step back when an unmistakable, deep growl sounded behind the door, followed by the threatening sound of nails scratching the wooden surface.

“Bring the hammer,” John called from the kitchen, seemingly unfazed by the whole thing; his tall, broad figure stood in front of the single window in the room, his eyebrows pinching together as he studied the frame mostly covered up with boards.

Zombies, Dean had heard the adults call them once, the notion sounding too impossible for anyone to repeat it out loud. The undead, Croats, monsters — so many names, so little explanation for what had happened to the world. Dean could get used to being stuck inside the house for the rest of his life, but he would never get used to them. The constant growls, the gut-wrenching screams, the scratching on the walls, letting them know just how aware of their presence the Croats were.

John kept a methodical pace to repair the breach on the window, replacing one board at a time so that the gap was never big enough to let the others get inside. Slowly the job was done, with four nails on each side of the boards. The muted and dull bang of the hammer followed in line with Dean's heartbeat as more zombies, one after the other, gathered close to the window, attracted by the noise and the promise of a free meal. His father didn't seem too bothered by them, stopping his work long enough to stab them in the head and carry on with the hammer.

“Watch out, daddy!” he warned as another row of teeth snapped too close to his dad’s arm. That was mostly Dean's only job — to watch out for new undead, his dad could miss. Dean kept count each time his dad stabbed a Croat in the head. “Daddy?” Dean attempted after the ninth zombie dropped on the porch floor outside.

“Hmm?” John muttered between a new wave of thuds.

“When will the monsters go away?”

The hammering stopped.

“I’m afraid while there are people left, these monsters will always live among us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember when I told you you should never get near them because they’re sick?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if you get too close, you’ll get sick too. That’s what happens when they catch someone like us; they make us sick too.”

“Can’t we make them better again? We have syrup. We could share with them.”

John let out a hollow laugh. “I don’t think that’ll work…”

Dean hummed, contemplating the window for a while. “I don't like it here,” he stated.

“What’s there to like? For now, we just need to survive. Everything else is… irrelevant.”

Dean looked at his sneakers, stepping on the loose shoelace with his foot. “Can’t we go home?”

“For the hundredth time, no!” John replied too quickly. “Look, son…” He took a deep breath and bent down to Dean’s level. “Our old life… you should forget about that. This is what we have now.” John sighed and straightened up. “The work’s done. Let's go get something to eat.” He ruffled Dean's hair on his way out of the kitchen, glancing at Dean’s slumped shoulders. “You want cereal?”

“ _Cappy Crush_?” Dean beamed at this. “Can I have them? Is it the choco or the peanut butter one? But it’s not even Saturday yet. Mommy only lets me have them on Saturdays.”

John laughed. “Cap’n Crunch is all yours today. And you can even decide which one you prefer! I’m sure mommy will agree you deserve a treat after your hard work.” He placed his hands on Dean’s shoulders and quickly maneuvered him to face the bathroom. “After we get cleaned up,” he gave Dean a light pat on the butt. “Your mother will kill me if we show up at the table reeking of zombie goo.”

xxx

“You're dead!” Dean shouted in triumph as he plunged his purple rubber dinosaur into the water. The small but victorious plastic lion ran along the bathtub edge led by Dean’s hand as he roared with pride.

He continued his adventure with Max the lion until the steam was long gone, the water turning cold, leaving him with wrinkled fingertips and damp, spiky hair. Dean didn’t mind; this was one of the perks of the new house. Despite most of their previous homes having running water, it was a rarity to have a working heater, and Dean had grown used to cold water.

A soft lullaby came from the end of the hallway, his mother's song hushing Sammy to sleep and engulfing the bathroom with peace. Dean grinned at the green-eyed reflection watching him through the water; “Bam!” He suddenly shouted, smashing the reflection as Max dove in the water, and a new battle began, this time against the big, black, furry gorilla, Alf.

“Hey, champ!” John's face emerged in the open doorway. “Hurry up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Yes, daddy.” Dean let go of his toys, squeezing a load of shampoo into his hand and rubbing his hair vigorously. His bath time was probably his favorite part of the day. His mother just recently had agreed to let him wash on his own. Dean was old enough already, he had argued. A little convincing was needed, but with some help from his father, he now got to enjoy his adventurous time alone. He dove his whole body into the water to rinse off every last bit of soap.

Once he was finished, his mother checked to see if everything had been washed right, kissing his forehead as a reward for another job well done. “Told you, mommy, I'm not a baby! I can do it myself,” he announced triumphantly.

“No, you're not a baby,” Mary replied sweetly, wrapping him up in the green towel and drying his hair. “So…” she kissed his cheek. “I guess you're old enough for a…” Mary narrowed her eyes, her lips pressing into a line before twisting into a smile. “Tickle attack!” she giggled, immediately tickling his belly until Dean was laughing too hard even to breathe. “Mommy! Stop! _Pease_!” he broke free from his mother’s tickle-claws. “Can’t catch me, mommy!” he yelled over his shoulder, already half-away inside his bedroom.

Mary followed, armed with the top half of his pajamas. “C’mere, little frog.” Dean jumped onto his bed, the mattress bouncing as he quickly reached the other side, and shifted his weight onto his knees, but before he had the chance to get off it, Mary caught one of his legs. “There you go!” she proclaimed, slipping his blue and white-striped pajamas over his head.

The loud bang downstairs cracked Mary’s smile. She slowly got up, nodding to John when he emerged by the door, bringing a finger to his lips in a silent hush, with an expression that matched his white-knuckled grip around the baseball bat.

“Is that unc’ Bobby?”

“Uncle Bobby knows better than to make all that noise.” Mary’s murmur almost got lost in the incessant banging that only got louder as John disappeared down the stairs.

“Finish getting dressed,” Mary said, her tone betraying her attempt at smiling as she reached the door. “And stay here,” she warned just before the door closed behind her.

Dean put on his pants, leaving the socks forgotten on top of his bed as he got down, bare feet meeting the cold floor, the sensation as sharp as the sudden silence filling the main floor. With a few light, quiet steps, his ear was pressed to the door, eyes closed, cheek flat against the surface. He could hear his dad downstairs, the distressed words growing louder as he repeated, “Who’s there?”

Someone answered from outside, the voice too low for Dean to make out what they were saying.

“Sorry, but we can’t help you, just go away!”

“John…” Mary’s cautionary footsteps seemed to stop by the front door. “She’s… she’s pregnant. We can’t just leave her there.”

“Mary…”

“What if it was me?” she pleaded. “Wouldn’t you want someone to help me too? Besides, what harm can she do against the two of us?”

The silence stretched uncomfortably between them before Dean heard John concede with a sigh. “Hands up where I can see them. We’re gonna open up.”

Dean turned the doorknob of his bedroom door just as three sets of footsteps burst through the entry-door. He slid to the floor, his hands leaving behind sweaty imprints on the hardwood as he moved with slow deliberation toward the edge of the stairs, thankful for the shadows that concealed his presence as he pressed his cheeks tightly to the balusters.

Two men stood in the entryway with revolvers threateningly pointed at both John and Mary, a woman with a flowery light pink dress in between the two. “Gun beats baseball bat, don’t you think?” the man with a mullet said.

“Every time, man,” the tallest of the three cheered. “They always fall for the pregnant chick trick.”

The woman giggled, punching her belly a few times. “Fake!” She brushed away a lock of her blonde, pixie-cut hair. Dean watched her bony face taking in the surroundings, her devious smile landing on Mary as she pointed a gun at her.

That propelled Dean out of his hiding spot, and he was at the top of the stairs before he could breathe properly.

“Momm—?”

He didn’t have the chance to finish the word. The small explosion lit up the room for a moment, the intensity of it blinding Dean. The grating noise invaded his ears and paused time as he watched the hollow barrel pointed at him, his eyes following the wisp of smoke leaving the end of the gun, dragging a thin line up in the air before dissipating. For one ephemeral moment, that’s all there was, just a stolen silence, while Dean stared at the rip in his pajamas with the bullet wound underneath.

That is until Mary’s blood-curdling scream forced everything back into motion.

John punched the taller guy holding the gun at Dean and managed to disarm him. John turned his back on the one with the mullet, missing the flash of metal being pulled out from the back of the man’s pants.

Another shot was fired, but Dean could barely hear it above Mary’s cries, the sound enough to raise all the hair at the back of Dean’s neck.

The ember of flames cracked like a whip inside his chest, lashing at his ribcage. “Not now,” he gasped, fumbling for his necklace, only half-aware that he wasn’t in a dream. The blood was thicker than he had imagined, dripping down the stripes of his pajamas. He reached for the wound above his elbow, the laceration from the bullet just enough to pull him over the edge, dragging him into the abyss that followed him everywhere he went. A gush of air escaped his lips, and then Dean was falling, the darkness pulling him under just as he rolled down the stairs, each step jabbing his small frame before he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“I told you not to move, damn it!” Dean heard somewhere above his head.

John lay on his stomach, his eyes open and unmoving, a pool of blood already expanding around his chest.

“Daddy?” Dean shuddered, not understanding why his dad wouldn’t reply. “Daddy, please,” he repeated, watching Mary kneel by John’s side. She leaned over him, cheek resting on his back as she sobbed quietly against John’s inert body.

“Mommy?” Dean reached up, his hand shaking and hovering in the air for a moment before Mary wrapped hers around his trembling fingers.

“I’m here, baby,” she whispered with a tense smile despite the terror in her eyes.

Dean whimpered; a thin layer of sweat covered his whole body as he tried to keep the pressure building on the inside from coming out. He lowered his head to the floor with a quiet sigh, writhing in agony when a new wave of searing pain flared through his body, the darkness devouring any shiver of light in its wake. The flames grew stronger, licking at his ribcage, yearning to get free and to ignite the world around him. Dean swallowed thickly, the sickly blazing claws constricting around his heart, filling his lungs until it hurt to breathe.

“What’s wrong with him?” the mullet man asked.

The hot-white pain pressed against Dean’s throat, racing back to his heart like wildfire. Dean exhaled, panicked, then gulped in a mouthful of air. “Mommy, don’t leave me.”

“I’m right here,” Mary said; she brushed some of the hair flattening on his forehead, her lips burning bright and warm against the back of his hand. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s eyes burned with tears. His vision blurring as the sharp twists of agony shot down his body. He gulped; just like the times before, he just needed to wait a moment, trusting his necklace to do its job and keep it all on the inside.

“What’s going on?” the guy urged, hovering over them.

“Mommy?”

Mary looked down at John’s body, nodding slowly, mostly to herself, before yanking Dean’s necklace from his neck in one swift motion. Her tears burned hot against his forehead, “You can let go now,” she whispered to his skin.

“No, mommy, no!”

But it was too late. Dean’s heart started beating faster, catching fire as the flames sparked to life, scorching down his spine, consuming each and every muscle and bone, eating all the oxygen in his veins. Gasping only made it hurt more as all his senses burned. The fire clawed thick at the last thin layer of skin, keeping everything inside. “’m sorry,” he choked around shallow breaths and let go of the flames.

Mary’s screams were the first to meet the blast, followed by three other voices before being replaced by the steady roaring blaze. The angry flames left Dean, greedy for more, expanding from his body and darting through the weak hardwood floor. He watched them swirl up the wood, catching each piece of clothing. The bodies rippled and shifted under their whip, with every strand of hair curling off, the skin tightening and peeling away until the very air was consumed and thickened to the point of being unbreathable.

Dean closed his eyes, letting the darkness consume him at last.

xxx

Dean woke up to an ashy world. He blinked slowly at the hole in the ceiling above him and glanced around, choking on the thick, pungent scent of scorched wood. The staircase was mostly intact, and Dean could hear his baby brother’s cries from up above, faintly mixed with the sound of the floorboards creaking threateningly above him. The flames had consumed most of the furniture. What was left of the fire hissed and flickered in pale yellow shades, hitting him in small ripples of heat.

Dean grunted and tried to get up, uncaring of the cold ground seeping into his stiff, naked body and the terrible pain threatening to split his head in two. He groaned again, expelling a harsh breath through his teeth and pushing at the weight on his chest, only then realizing what it was.

“Mommy?” The question came out weak with an edge of panic.

Mary lay on top of him, face down. Her clothes were scorched and darkened to match her parched and rigid body. “Mommy?” he repeated. All his willpower left his body, his muscles unable to decide between tensing like stone or going limpid on the floor with no intention of ever moving again. His mom was… she was… His heartbeat pulsed ferociously against his eardrums. His vision blurred and the air stilled around him as if the world had stopped altogether, with only the grating, white noise left as the memory of what it once was.

Dean shut his eyes tight and gulped down his silent tears as the fear closed in on itself and settled like a dull ache in his heart. After a few deep breaths, he opened his eyes and glanced around — there was no sign of life left in the room; everything was agonizingly still and muted save the embers licking at the remaining surfaces.

Until a cold, sharp grunt intruded on the silence of the room.

There was movement somewhere Dean’s eyes couldn’t reach before the inevitable sound of chewing caught Dean’s ears. “Mommy?! No, mommy, pease, pease wake up. _Pease_!” he repeated shakily. “You pomised. You pomised not to leave.”

The sounds stopped, and part of the weight on Dean’s chest dissipated as he was met with the glassy, lifeless face of an undead. Dean stopped sobbing, shock giving way to pure terror. What was once a man watched him from above Mary’s corpse. He growled, baring his teeth down at Dean, some of Mary’s scorched flesh hanging down his chin.

Dean’s eyes widened, his breathing coming to a stop as he sucked in a wave of smoke before he forced it all out. “No!” he cried, swallowing a wave of nausea.

The creature growled again, lunging forward, aiming for Dean’s arms. Dean sobbed, desperately trying to get free. “No!” he screamed as the man’s mouth almost closed around his wrist. “No!” he repeated, trembling in relief as the Croat was suddenly dragged away from him; relief immediately replaced with anxiety as the undead’s grunts turned into the sound of struggling.

Dean looked around, terrified, trying to free himself from his disadvantaged position on the ground.

Heavy, dragged footsteps closed in on Dean before he was met with a beard-covered face topped with a worn out, red baseball cap.

“Unc’ Bobby?” Dean rasped, feeling his eyes burning, unsure if it was from the relief washing over him or the smoke cloying at his throat.

“Oh, god! What the heck happened here?!” Bobby barked, voice edged with terror. His eyes wide as he pulled Dean to his feet, hugging him harder than needed. “Are you okay, son?” Dean could feel Bobby’s shallow, rapid breathing against his chest as he coughed.

“Yes, but mommy and daddy—”

Bobby pulled away from Dean, removing his cap before wiping a new wave of tears sliding down Dean’s cheeks.

“Bad guys came! They shot daddy, and I… I didn’t…” He reached for his neck and the absent necklace. Dean’s throat tightened, feeling his eyes fill with tears as he stared at his mom’s body.

Bobby glanced down, carefully moving Mary’s corpse to the side and checking for her pulse. He sighed, hands shaking as he covered her with his jacket. He proceeded to check John’s body, despair tracing the deep lines in his face for a moment as he kneeled next to the body, cap clasped against his chest, and head down. “Goodbye, my friend,” he murmured before he looked at Dean again, back to his old determined self. “Let’s go.”

“I’m sorry…” Dean sobbed, kneeling to cling to his mommy through Bobby’s jacket. “I didn’t mean to mommy… I didn’t mean to…” he repeated over and over again as Bobby pulled him away from Mary and hugged him tight against his chest.

“We need to go. This place‘ll be crawling with Croats in no time.” 

“Mommy,” Dean pulled away, choking on his sobs, arms stretched and hands splayed as he tried to get back to Mary’s side before Bobby lifted him off the ground. “Mommy, pease…” he repeated, tears soaking through the older man’s shirt, his screams filling the house as Bobby dragged him upstairs.

Sammy was thankfully unharmed; Dean glanced down at him, carefully holding his brother in his arms. They stood still in the middle of the room as Bobby quickly strode from one room to the other and back again, trying to gather as much of their possessions as possible in the least amount of time.

“Where are we going?” Dean asked when his voice started working again, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, still warmed by Mary’s lips.

“Still workin’ on that part of the plan,” Bobby said, patting Dean’s head on the way downstairs. “Let’s go.”

Dean was still clutching Sammy by the time they made it to the Impala and settled down on the front seat. Glancing through the rearview mirror, he watched the burning debris slowly eating at their house. Dean leaned his head back, counting the number of undead entering what they had called home for a few months. He only realized he was still crying when Sammy stretched his arms up, his little fingers eagerly playing with Dean’s cheeks.

Bobby cleared his throat, and Dean’s eyes were pulled back up to watch the older man’s fingers tensely drumming against the wheel as he shifted his gaze between Dean and the road ahead.

“You should rest; after what you went through, I don’t even…”

“Unc’ Bobby, I… I…” Dean choked on his words.

“Tomorrow,” Bobby cut him off before he could admit the full horror of what he had just done. “Tomorrow, you’ll explain everything.” He patted his shirt pocket and reached in before Dean’s necklace was glistening in his hand. “But for now, put this on.”

Dean looked away, quickly wiping his face before putting his necklace back on.

“It’s okay, son. They say cryin’ is good for the soul,” Bobby said, voice shaky but reassuring.

Dean didn’t reply.

“You can cry every day if it comes to it.” He stared ahead. “Just don’t forget to smile once in a while. I promise ya, with time it’ll get easier to do it and actually mean it.”

Dean closed his eyes, never to speak of his mother’s old saying ever again… “Angels are watching over you.” How could they be and still let him hurt his family?

Dean still wondered to this day how could they watch him unleash Hell’s fire on his home and family and not do a damn thing about it? If angels were real, Dean hated them.


	2. Consequences of Falling

** 25 years later **

Dean rolled down the window on the passenger’s side, taking a deep breath of the cool morning air. The last remnants of the harsh, cold night were swept away by the rising sun timidly peeking from behind the first clusters of buildings.

Dean reached out, watching the buildings slowly grow on the horizon as he drew lazy waves against the breeze rushing against the truck. He blinked hazily and turned to check behind them — the stained white box-truck drove close behind them with Bela at the wheel and Ash beside her, his head pressed against the window, cheek squished to the glass and mouth hanging half-open. Dean couldn’t wrap his head around how he could always be so calm in moments like this. Bela held her cigar between her lips and gave Dean a small salute.

Dean swallowed the small lump of unease forming in his throat, giving her a curt nod in return before turning his eyes to the road — the freeway was jam-packed with abandoned cars, and they had to take a back road to reach the city. Rule of thumb — you stay the hell away from cities. You don’t go there unless you’re looking for trouble — trouble in the form of ugly-ass starved Croats and mercenaries who would sell their own mother if the price was right. But they had already looted most of the surrounding areas back home, stripping the area bare. As risky as this plan might sound, nothing worthwhile was absent of a bit of danger.

That’s what Ellen used to say, anyway, and Dean had decided that for a life motto, that was as good as it could get. On the plus side, probably not many people were crazy enough to come out here, leaving the place full of supplies. As Bobby had pointed out, it was ripe for the picking, and if that wasn't Bobby being optimistic, Dean didn't know what was.

The seat loudly creaked as Dean slumped back, crossing his feet on the top of the truck’s dashboard with a sigh — he missed the worn-out leather of his Impala.

“You’re thinking so hard I swear I'm about to see a vein from your neck pop up.”

Dean glared at Charlie, her red hair escaping from beneath her light-blue beanie and tangling in the wind as she pressed her foot down on the gas pedal, leading them to the tall, rusted bridge connecting to the mouth of the city. A spiderweb of cables was strung from tower to tower, holding the roadbed high above the water, and beneath them, the river flowed peacefully, as if the end of the world had never come to be.

They had tried to quarantine the first waves of the undead that broke in Europe, closing off their borders to prevent the infected from spreading. The Croatoan Virus proved highly infectious, though, and much smarter than all their strategies combined. Soon, millions of undead crawled across the country, driven by one purpose only — to feed, kill, and turn every human being in their path. The few survivors that remained had fled the cities to find refuge where they could.

“Isn’t it tiring?” Dean grunted.

“What?”

“To be so goddamned positive all the time?”

The music cut off. Charlie reached down, hitting the eject button and turning the old cassette with a faded ‘Cool Vintage’ written on one of the sides over before popping it right into the player again and hitting play. The first lone beats started filling the truck before a male voice joined in. Charlie drummed her fingerless gloved hands on the steering wheel, smiling when she noticed Dean following along to the music.

“Hail, hail,” she sang, bobbing her head from side to side. “What’s the matter with you? Feel right.” She pushed her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and turned to Dean, looking at him over the lenses. “Don’t you feel right, baby?” She poked her finger against Dean’s arm before ruffling his hair.

“Watch it, red,” he warned, but she ignored him in favor of humming along with the song. The bridge’s washed-out colors blurred behind her profile, and her black leather jacket, mixing reds and blues with the sun’s beaming light reflected on the waves underneath. After everything they had been through, Charlie had managed to remain steadfast even when everyone else was grasping at straws and losing their ground. She looked as much of a kid as she remained in spirit, and Dean envied her sometimes. “How old are you?”

She peered at him, eyebrows high, and a questioning look on her face before rewarding him with a punch in the leg.

“No, seriously,” he whined, massaging the sore spot. “We barely celebrate birthdays anymore. It’s hard to keep track.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, sounding both parts sincere and somber. “Kinda hard to find time to do it when you’re, you know,” she waved her hand in the air before adjusting her glasses on her nose, “trying not to get eaten by super-strong, never-dying, ugly-ass Croats.”

His brows drew together. “I know…” Dean conceded, watching a Croat roaming along the sidewalk, blocking the view to the tattered sign that welcomed them into the city. It stretched its half-eaten arm and ragged olive green shirt towards the trucks as they left the bridge.

Dean lost track of time more days than not, but he couldn't bring himself to forget the day he had killed his parents. Twenty-five winters had passed, and he still had nightmares about that day. If he was lucky, by the end of the nightmare, both his parents were dead, but more times than not, they were nothing but Croats out for revenge, killing Dean in every way possible. Sometimes he wished they were more than just horrible dreams — at least in that reality Dean would finally be of used to them.

Dean bumped the music up another notch, letting the cheerful melody blast from the speakers and fill his mind.

xxx

They entered the city through an abandoned dock, following tight along the riverbank. Dean ignored the uncomfortable lump in the back of his throat and turned off the radio, asking Charlie to slow down. Shrouds of fine dust covered everything, the grey of it as deafening as the silence of the once-buzzing atmosphere, not even eased by the waves lapping against the stoned harbor. They took a turn before an old Pepsi-Cola billboard, the bleached out brown letters read ‘Refresh without filling,’ but most of the paper had peeled off, and the cartoonish lady smiling down at them was ripped in half and floated perpetually in mid-air.

The streets were covered in carpets of glass, wood, metal, and what probably was human remains, with grass growing wildly between the paving slabs. Dean studied the broken windows of the crumbling buildings — some had been boarded up, but Dean doubted that had made any difference in the end. He watched the low ground for any presence, dead or alive — several doors of shops remained open, blowing in the wind. Most streets were deserted, and they managed to circle the ones with Croats unnoticed. They kept a slow, steady pace, trying to keep the engines as quiet as possible.

“There!” Dean pointed down the road through the windshield — a lone olive tree soared vibrantly at the center of the back alley of a hotel. The narrow street led to a large, round exit door; on the right, a fire escape ladder remained unscathed against the brick wall. Most of the windows were in one piece, hidden by the vines that thrived around the buildings. If not for the blood on the pavement, Dean would have thought the end of the world had forgotten to knock on its door. They rounded the hotel, checking for other entry points — all remained closed — before returning to the back alley.

Charlie pointed with her head to the tall building. “It should be clear of Croats. I mean unless they’ve learned how to open doors.”

Dean pulled out his crowbar. “Let’s hope for everyone’s sake that no one is gonna be eating their words in just a bit.” He picked up his radio and held it to his mouth. “Let’s get down to business.”

“Gotcha,” came Ash’s voice from the other end.

Dean let the static fill the inside of the truck as Charlie parked parallel to the buildings, blocking one half of the entrance to the street. They watched Bela do the same on the other side so that both trucks completely blocked access to the road.

“Lemme scout out the area first.” Dean jumped out of the truck and checked everything closely, weapon at hand, just in case. Besides the slim, deep-green leaves of the tree following the wind’s course, everything remained as still as it had looked from a distance.

Charlie eased out of the beat-up truck, sighing into the freezing-cold alley, and stretching her arms above her head until her back cracked. Bela followed close by, pulling her long, light-brown hair into a ponytail before picking up her machete.

Dean opened the truck’s side door, pulling out his double-headed axe and Charlie’s spiked baseball bat. “Here you go, red.” He threw the weapon to Charlie, who smiled back before heading down the street to start working on the door. Dean wondered if maybe he should offer a hand, but the loud noise of the metal giving way to Charlie’s firm, blunt blows immediately reassured him that she was more than capable of taking care of herself. He hid a smile, looking for his handgun — a .22 pistol he hoped he wouldn’t be using anytime soon — before closing the small weapons locker that replaced the vehicle’s rear seat.

“Ash, you keep watch. If anything goes wrong,” Dean lifted his radio, “you know what to do.” Ash gave him a thumbs up in reply.

“Done,” came Charlie's proud voice from behind him as the screech of the metal door announced that she had managed to pull it open.

Dean turned the axe in his hands, clenching his fingers around the leather-wrapped grip, swinging the sturdy metal weapon in front of him — its double-edged blade had five spikes along each side, as well as a spike on the pommel and top end, courtesy of Bobby. Dean let the axe fall to his side with a sigh. He would never get used to this part — scrounging around amongst the carnage the world around them had become, running solely on a wing and a prayer most of the time.

“Are we doing this or what?” Bela said, holding the door open.

“Yeah.” Dean shook his head, forcing himself to snap out of it. He needed to focus on the mission ahead. He rolled his shoulders in reply, climbing the two concrete steps behind Charlie and Bela.

The door led to a corridor, and they moved along the dark marble floor framed by light-blue walls, and two doors at their right denoted the men and women’s bathrooms.

There were two black doors at the end of the corridor, one leading to a locker room and another one that said ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ on the outside. They entered through that one, weapons at hand — though much to their relief, the other side was just as deserted as the corridor they had just passed.

“Woah,” Charlie sighed dreamily, looking out at the hotel’s lobby.

Bela whistled. “Fancy, huh?”

The hotel looked like one that Dean’s parents wouldn’t have been able to afford back in the day. There was a small pool on the right that was probably once filled with fish and now covered in algae. The dark timbered reception area on the far wall contrasted with the pristine white brick walls and columns framing it on either side. The floor was so polished, even with the dust covering it, Dean was sure he would be able to ski across it if he wanted. The glass roof was far higher on the last floor, filling the wide-open space with sunlight.

“Grab whatever you think might be of use — tools, clothes, new supplies for winter — take everything.”

“We got it.” Charlie twirled around. “This ain’t our first rodeo, y’know?” She gave him a lopsided grin, spreading her arms out to her sides with another twirl before skipping to catch up to Bela at the stairs. “This is gonna be fun!” she chanted.

“Hey! Just ‘cause we’ve managed this far without much of a hassle doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods yet.” Dean grunted at their backs. “Stay sharp!” He raised his voice a little louder. “You see anything, you get back here immediately. Don’t be a hero, and don’t engage unless you have to.”

“Yes, mom.” Charlie glanced down over the stairway rail, winking before disappearing around another curve on the stairs, her baseball bat firmly perched on her shoulder despite her smile.

Dean restricted his search to the first three floors. The recreation area was a no go, but the kitchen had been a gold mine — pans, glasses, cutlery, several sizes of bowls, and a ‘Kiss the cook’ apron Dean was sure would make Ellen freak out. He took a couple of new chairs from the dining room, and between the mahogany tables he carried into the truck and Bela and Charlie’s various finds, the two vehicles were almost completely full.

“Not bad, huh?” Charlie exclaimed victoriously.

Dean nodded, eyeing both trucks with a smile. He swiped at the layer of sweat covering his forehead with the back of his hand and checked his watch — it was almost noon. “We should get going. We don’t wanna be here when it gets dark.”

“Not yet.” Bela snapped a bolt cutter in front of Dean’s face. “We couldn’t check the upper floor. The door is blocked.”

“Don’cha think we’ve got more than enough for one day’s work?” Ash asked, one foot already inside the passenger’s side. “We’ve earned ourselves a trip back home and a cold one.”

“We’ll have time for that once we get back.” Charlie put down a ceramic table lamp and a fluffy white rug, moving to take Bela’s side.

“Hold up.” Dean stopped them. “Blocked, how?”

“With a chain,” Charlie answered like it was obvious.

“Hence, the need for this baby.” Bela snapped the bolt cutter again to make her point.

“Maybe it’s chained for a reason. We have plenty of stuff already. I don’t think we should risk it for whatever may be behind that door. For all we know, it could be swarming with Croats.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Bela winked and disappeared inside with Charlie close behind.

“H—hold up.” Dean raised his hand to the now-empty street, suddenly feeling twenty years older. It was impressive how they always managed to make him act like the old, overprotective dad. “Shit!”

“Do you want me to go with?” Ash muttered behind him.

“No need.” Dean scratched the scruff on his jaw. “This is probably a waste of time anyway.” With a low sigh, Dean turned on his heel and raced after them.

xxx

The sight from the thirteenth floor sent chills down Dean’s spine. “I don’t like this.” He looked down again — the hotel lobby was barely a tiny square in the distance. Dean gulped down the lump of nervousness and grabbed the wooden railing. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Don’t be such a wuss,” Bela mocked as they reached the fourteenth floor’s landing. The whole expanse on the right was glassed-wall. On the left, three dark wooden columns occupied the space between two large, round vases with palm trees, both dehydrated and dead. At the center, two doors.

Dean’s eyes drilled into the back of Bela’s head as he joined her by the dark double doors. A long chain was looped firmly around the two metal handles, securing them in place. The door was scuffed on the bottom as if someone had forced it from the inside, but the black wood remained intact save for the broken stained glass at the center of the right door. Dean took a peek through it to the other side. Most of the walls were covered with metallic cabinets, and a long aisle divided the kitchen into two corridors. “Who the hell would have a kitchen up here?”

“Top floor restaurant.” Charlie pointed to the glass door on the other side of the floor, featuring an elegant restaurant with a rooftop sky lounge. “The view is quite impressive.”

Dean groaned.

There was a dull click, and the chains slipped heavily to the floor. Dean’s grip around his axe tightened; he moved his feet away and puffed his chest, ready for the doors to burst open at any moment, with a battalion of Croats swarming and catching them off guard. Nothing happened, though, and the wooden doors remained still as if the chain was still in place. Dean ran his fingers down the dark, splintered edge, curling them around the knob to push it open.

The door creaked as he slowly made his way into the empty kitchen, signaling to the other two to wait by the door. The stench was the first thing that hit him. There was unwashed silverware in the sinks, mostly covered in rust, and several pots filled with rotten food. He blinked against the sting making his eyes tear up, and covered his mouth to keep himself from coughing. He followed the corridor on the right, carefully avoiding the large chunks of debris scattered along the tiled floor.

There were no signs of movement, and Dean gave his okay for Charlie and Bela to join him.

“You guys check the cabinets. Maybe there’s something we can salvage. I’m gonna go to the next room and take a look around.” Dean crossed the remainder of the kitchen and went through the door on the right.

The pantry was almost as big as the kitchen, but the light seeping in from the kitchen was weak and insufficient to illuminate the room properly. Dean fumbled for the lighter in his back pocket and lit it up.

The back of the motorcycle helmet was the first thing he saw; the red stripe painted at the center surrounded by white smudges sending Dean’s brain into overdrive before the helmet turned around, and Dean came face-to-face with the Croat wearing it.

“I hate being right!” Dean couldn’t help the exasperation in his voice.

The guy snarled, and Dean could see more movement coming from all points of the room as more snarls joined in.

“Run!” he screamed to the others back in the kitchen and spun around, already doing the same himself. He sprinted across the kitchen, checking around for Bela and Charlie, who had already rounded the corner, back to the floor’s landing outside the kitchen doors.

Dean turned around, briskly kicking and jabbing as many fucking Croats as he could. Between grunts, cold fingers managed to reach for his neck, grabbing his necklace instead, and pulling it hard enough to break the chain and rip it from Dean’s neck.

Dean inhaled sharply, biting back a startled cry when his back crashed into the stair rails. He threw another punch, plunging his knife deep into a Croat’s neck, his hands moving to another one’s hair and pulling at the scalp in a desperate attempt to escape the impending death behind him as the group of Croats gathered around him. Dean repeatedly sliced, almost blindly, amidst the snarls rising around him, barely avoiding one of the snarling mouths already open and ready for the lethal strike.

“Fuck!” Dean looked around, frantically searching for the two familiar faces, spotting Charlie as the railing behind him snapped with a dull sound. The helmeted Croat reached for his neck, his nails finding their way into Dean’s skin and scratching him just as the railing broke away, and both of them fell through into the fourteenth-floor stairwell.

Thoughts swirled through Dean’s head at a mind-numbing pace as he tried to grasp what was happening — the fourteen-story drop, the rest of the Croats pushing and shoving, leaping one after the other, following him down into the fall. Charlie was screaming his name somewhere above them, her voice growing more distant, muffled by angry snarls and the air rushing past his ears as he kept falling.

Dean gulped, heat filling his throat and steadily swelling beneath his skin. He closed his eyes, instinctively reaching for his missing necklace, between spikes of white-hot pain expanding inside his chest and blistering along his bones. The world was slowly growing pale, cracking all around him as he crossed to the other side. Faded images came to his mind — both of his parents petrified, cold on the tiles of their old house, burnt to death because of him.

Dean made a tormented sound; the horror of what was waiting for him on the floor was nothing compared to what would happen if he lost control with Charlie and Bela still nearby. “Run!” he screamed. The words echoed throughout the building as he fought to control the wildfire expanding behind his ribcage. Dean kept his eyes firmly shut, the sickening flames licking at his heart and scorching his veins, determinedly pulling him into the darkness.

The pang in Dean’s chest flared, fiery tendrils snaked along his spine and scorched through his brain to send him into the nightmarish world of darkness inside him. Without the necklace to keep it under control, the flames grew mercilessly inside him, dragging him into the prison of hell his consciousness always went to whenever he lost control. The black haze gave way to red and agonizing screams. _Give it now_ , the voice demanded, as cold as the darkness caressing his mind. The vision so real, Dean could feel each inch of its sharp nail ripping open his chest and clawing around his heart, leaving him wide open to the bitter cold. The voice hauled Dean into the air, suspending him above a pit of faceless beings wailing at him, arms stretched and ripping at his legs, trying to pull him down. _Give it,_ the voice repeated, more persistent this time, pinning Dean to the ground. The screaming continued, getting louder and louder over the sound of his own heart throbbing stubbornly in the dark figure’s hand. Dean wanted them to stop, but long, cold fingers covered his mouth as the dark one crushed Dean’s heart in his hand. His pain-etched face mirrored in the figure’s blood-red eyes, Dean exhaled a muffled yelp, shutting his eyes as a dull ache ran down his spine.

Then it was over.

Dean’s eyes flew open as warm, comforting fingers pulled him away from his visions and back to reality and into the ocean contained in the clearest pair of blue eyes Dean had ever seen. The man blinked slowly down at him. Dean was back in the hotel, hanging somewhere between the eighth and the sixth floors, with nothing but the warm hand wrapped around his to keep him from falling.

The eyes blinked down at him again. “Glad you could take a break from your relaxing nap,” the blue-eyed man grimaced. “Now, can you cooperate a little? You’re not exactly light.” The man’s lips turned into a tight line, brows furrowing together as he hauled Dean up and over the rails.

As soon as Dean’s feet touched the balcony floor, his whole body collapsed. He flopped over onto his side and lay there panting, feeling the cool marble floor calm his racing heart pummeling painfully against his chest. He hugged himself, noticing he was naked and sweaty to the touch, his skin burning up as he shivered uncontrollably. He could hear the floorboards creaking above him; the fire hissed and flickered in pale yellow shades, hitting him in waves of heat. Dean ignored the heavy sting burning against the back of his throat and forced himself into a sitting position, his body protesting against the sudden movement. He glanced around frantically, expelling a grunt when he noticed what remained of his outburst — most of the furniture nearby had been turned to dust, and part of the ceiling was missing where the embers hungrily ate through every available surface, revealing the floor above him.

Dean felt his stomach drop. It had been years since the last time he had lost control like this, with each vision of the pit and the dark figure getting more vivid as the years went by. Everything seemed so real, the screams, the sickly burn, that voice, and the threat in it, filled with so much cold and hatred. It made the fear of going back there almost as unbearable as the destruction Dean had to face when he returned. He hadn’t killed anyone since his parents, and the thought of killing both Charlie and Bela was enough to make him want to throw up.

The blue-eyed stranger crouched down, looking for something inside a brown duffel bag, seemingly unfazed by their surroundings.

“What the fuck?” Dean asked after a few beats, voice hoarse and scratching along his throat.

“A thank you would suffice,” the guy replied in a deep, husky voice, not taking his eyes from his bag.

“What happened?”

“You were about to set everything on fire.”

“Yeah, Einstein,” Dean hissed quietly. “I figured that much. What did you do? How are you not dead from the fire?”

The man got up, a blank stare merging with his features, an old, light-brown trench coat held in his hand as he stepped closer, looming over Dean. “That’s not relevant,” he said, draping the piece of clothing around Dean’s shoulders with a gentleness that didn’t match his words. “I shouldn’t have gotten myself involved.”

The trench coat didn’t really fit Dean; both his arms stuck out of the sleeves, and he barely managed to fasten the two middle buttons. He probably looked ridiculous in it, but Dean hugged himself, silently grateful for the piece of fabric offering him some warmth. He looked up, studying the man clad in washed-out navy jeans and a dark green jacket as he stood. He had a sharp jawline despite the soft features, paired with dark, tousled hair, long enough that a couple of strands curled at the nape of the neck, along with a piercing gaze. Before Dean could decide if he should feel flustered or annoyed with the way those blue eyes seemed to bore into his soul, the man turned around, grabbing his duffle bag as he walked away with purpose.

“Wait!” Dean called out, standing on wobbly legs. “I’m Dean.”

“Take care,” the other replied, not bothering to look back.

“C’mon, man. Aren’t you even gonna tell me your name?”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

“Don’t go!” Dean took a few precarious steps, not minding the desperation lacing the tone of his voice. “I mean… I have a group. We have shelter, food, safety.”

“I’m better on my own,” the man said shortly. “And you should do the same before you get someone killed.”

“But you can fix it? I mean, you just stopped me, right? Somehow...”

The man glanced over his shoulder; the light behind him wavered through the smoke, making his face shine where the light hit his skin. He sighed mournfully and shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” His expression grew softer as their gaze met, and Dean found himself averting his eyes.

“Yeah, tell me how you really feel,” Dean muttered.

“Good luck.” There was an edge to his voice as the guy turned without sparing another look back, something almost somber that left Dean grasping for words.

“H—hold u—” Dean stopped abruptly. At the edge of his vision, he caught another movement. He turned just as Charlie and Bela’s distressed faces turned the corner on the opposite side of the stairwell.

“Hey!” Charlie shouted, sounding both parts relieved and surprised. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, he—” Dean started to point but realized the space where the stranger stood before was now empty. “What th—” Dean’s eyes darted around before landing on the open door leading to one of the master bedrooms. The room was quiet and otherwise undisturbed save for the sun-bleached purple curtains flapping against the cracked window on the back wall before the stranger came into view and unceremoniously threw them open. He stepped on the window sill, taking one last glance at Dean before leaping forward.

Dean wanted to scream, but all that came out was a small, half-broken gasp as a cold, dreadful chill ran down his spine, propelling his legs to move on their own accord. Before Dean knew it, he was clutching the black hardwood of the window sill with both hands, halfway out the window, breathing fast and unsteady against the cold biting street’s air as he looked down, horrified with what he was about to see.

He watched the ground, seven stories below him, for a couple of moments before releasing a shuddering sigh, both parts relieved and astonished. He should be staring at a corpse partially smashed and spread out against the asphalt; instead, the guy was nowhere to be found, only a black Yamaha motorcycle stood on the otherwise empty road. “No way…” he mumbled, barely hearing Charlie’s voice growing closer.

“Dean?” Charlie said, fingers touching his back before calling out for him again. “Are you okay?” she insisted.

Maybe he had imagined the whole thing. A product of his mind trying to escape the hell consuming him barely moments ago. Dean raised his hand to eye level, studying his fingers, the way they closed around the air, he could still feel the warmth from the stranger’s hand filling the void he was now grasping. That felt more real than any nightmare his mind could fabricate. Dean buried his hands in the trench coat’s pockets, smiling at the realization. This ugly trench coat was all the evidence Dean needed. “I’m…” Dean turned slowly before nodding, not trusting his voice to provide reassurance.

“Hey,” Charlie dangled a silver chain in front of him; the round, pitch-black stone shone proudly at the center. “Look what I found.”

Dean didn’t think twice before taking hold of his necklace, grasping the large stone between his fingers with a soft, low sigh.

“The Croat must have dropped it before following you down,” Charlie provided before Dean had the chance to ask.

“Thanks,” he said, putting the necklace back around his neck, welcoming the cold, inert stone heavy against his chest.

“Now, look at you,” Bela spoke after a moment. “We leave you for two seconds, and you get yourself almost naked?” She crossed her arms against her chest with a smile. “We can’t take you anywhere.”

Looking down at his body, Dean realized he had forgotten he was butt naked under the stranger’s trench coat. “Right,” he said, closing the light-brown fabric around him.

Charlie elbowed Bela but couldn’t help laughing along. “You sure you okay?” she asked between laughs.

“’m good,” Dean rasped, taking one last look at the window before leaving. “Let’s get out of here. I think we’ve earned ourselves a goddamn drink.”

As soon as they reached the exit door, Ash was already there, gun in hand. “What the hell happened? I heard some sort of blast.” His worried expression turned into surprise when he saw the state Dean was in. “And what happened to _you_?”

Dean grunted in reply, slowly making his way to the truck, careful not to step on any broken glass, sharp metal, or any other hazards paving the ground.

“And…” Dean could hear the confusion molding Ash’s voice. “Why are you wearing that weird coat?” Ash sighed. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Bela beat Dean to the punch.

xxx

The music was blasting in the background. Dean stretched himself as comfortably as possible into the brown leather seat, letting his eyes grow unfocused as the truck pushed its way between the sea of abandoned cars along a stretch of highway. Charlie turned the steering wheel, guiding the vehicle to the grassy edge of the road.

A light rain lulled the world outside into a gray haze. Dean leaned his head against the passenger window, taking his time to watch the raindrops slide down the glass and fall off the edge. He returned his gaze to the road, a misplaced sorrow pooled around his heart — that blue-eyed stranger had burst into Dean’s life for one fleeting moment, and yet Dean couldn’t help but feel there was so much more to it. When someone could literally cut through the flames and pull Dean away from his nightmares, there had to be more. Dean could only hope the guy was okay, somewhere safe, with someone taking care of him the way he had done for Dean.

Dean watched the sky; the rain had stopped, clouds gave way to a patch of blue as clear as the blue of the stranger’s eyes. Dean closed his eyes and fell asleep just like that, committing to memory that moment back in the hotel, floating on air, hand around his, eyes meeting and holding as Dean counted each and every shade brimming from those blue ones.

xxx

Castiel reached out, feeling the raindrops pool in his hand before rolling down his palm to join the others sprinkling the ground with a constant soothing staccato. Lightning cut through the sky, silencing the rain for an instant with a matching thunderclap roaring its arrival in the distance.

Castiel heaved a sigh. There was something about riding under the rain that he usually appreciated. The exhilarating rush of adrenaline pulsing through his veins as he sped along the road on the back of his black motorcycle. The cold drops of water making his cheeks go numb and soaking him to the core, with the wind blowing cool and brisk, almost strong enough to lift him off the earth and into the dark clouds above.

But not today. Today the rain beat furiously on the rooftop where Castiel stood, watching the water drops streaming from the sky. He closed his hand. The strangers had left a long time ago, but Castiel remained there, securely on top of the hotel. Dean had seemed tired, but he would survive. Thanks to Castiel. He shouldn’t have intervened, he usually didn’t, but no matter what, Castiel couldn’t bring himself to regret his decision. _Dean._

Castiel still felt Dean’s soul rumbling and hasting through him. With its tendrils of misty clouds shaded along the spectrum of greens, furious as a tsunami and louder than stars colliding. Watching Dean’s soul was like watching the act of creation itself, expansive and unforgiving, but also kind and free-spirited.

Dean was truly unique, a misfit just like Castiel, but one who had found his place among others. At the end of the world, people were bound to grow lonely, but Dean wasn't alone, and, although it shouldn't, that thought gave Castiel a strange sort of comfort.

Castiel blew out some of the air in his lungs, the cloud of white mist leaving his lips before quickly dissolving into the afternoon’s sky. He stepped onto the edge of the building, admiring his motorcycle from afar before opening his arms and jumping over the edge. The wind picked up as he fell, daring the rain to go faster than him. He watched the ground get closer, welcoming the thrill pounding in his heart until the very last moment before stretching his long, dark-feathered wings and stopping the fall, floating down the final stretch to make the perfect landing beside his bike.

Castiel looked up. “Farewell,” he muttered before climbing onto the back of his bike. Revving up the engine and driving off, a steady smile spread across his face.


	3. Clouds’ Keeper

The quiet hum of the first hours of May had swept over the night by the time they neared their destination. They had never bothered to look up the name of the natural dome too small to be called a mountain that held their home at its top — the fort they had baptized as Clouds’ Keeper. Because even though it was a bright, sunny day, the first time they caught a glimpse of it, a cocoon of white cotton-candy like clouds sat languidly at its footing like a halo, breaking apart just enough to display its big walls at the top.

And Dean wasn’t a sap, thank you very much, but he couldn’t stop the whispered words, _clouds’ keeper_ , from coming out. Sam had snorted in reply but smiled all the same, and Bobby had rewarded him with a pat on the shoulder and a, “Well I’ll be damned, we’re here.”

“Almost there,” Charlie said around a muffled yawn, bringing Dean back to the present. This far up, the forest got thick enough that it would be easy to miss their exit if they weren’t already familiar with the way. The loose gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled up in front of the chain blocking the rest of the path. Dean got out of the truck and moved the chain out of the way, waving the others through before putting it back in place.

They followed the dirt driveway that snaked out of view into the woods, half-covered with wild plants. It was pitch black outside despite the full moon shining above the treetops; the trucks’ headlights the only source of light to pave the way as the road narrowed into a fork. They went right, driving until they came to a small clearing amidst the dense vegetation. An old wooden lookout post stood at the heart of it.

Dean took a peek through the window to find Kevin waving back at him, radio in hand. Dean adjusted the frequency on his own and pressed the red button, bringing the device to his mouth. “How’s it going up there?”

“Oh, you know, just enjoying the fresh air. I’m going for a stroll next, maybe hit the bar, take some hot chick back home with me. You should come with.”

“When you say, bring some chick home,” Charlie chimed in. “You know dead ones don’t count, right?”

Dean laughed out loud, and Kevin flipped them the finger. “Also, huh…” he hesitated, his face suddenly serious. “Gordon took off with a group of five.”

“What?!” Dean couldn’t stop the hint of anger making his voice louder.

“He said he was tired of waiting for you. You know we’re running low on supplies.” Kevin tried to defend. “He organized his own party and took off.”

“That son of a—” Dean gritted his teeth before letting out an exasperated sigh. “Thanks for the heads up,” he added, signaling Charlie to hit the gas. She nodded silently, and the truck was moving again, leaving the secluded clearing behind.

“Dean, you know I love Gordon as much as the next person…” Her voice lingered against the cool air seeping in freely from the open window. “But I get why he made that decision. We’ve been away for two weeks, and times have been rough,” she said despite her knuckles white around the steering wheel.

“One more reason why he should have waited for us,” Dean barked. “These rules exist for a reason!”

“I know.”

“When we don’t follow them, someone fucking dies!”

“I know…”

“Only one,” Dean lifted his index finger for emphasis. “One party can leave at a time. The others stay to guarantee the protection of the group and—”

“To serve as a backup in case things go belly up. You don’t need to remind me; I helped write them, remember?”

Dean took a deep breath, suddenly feeling too tired. “Well, let’s hope they have better luck than us,” he whispered. Even though they had both trucks full, none of it was food or medication, something they severely lacked.

He leaned his head back, willing his muscles to relax against the leather seat. His eyelids were impossibly heavy. Still, he forced them open; his favorite part of the ride was just ahead — the last of the treetops gradually gave way to the walls of concrete surrounding the Keeper, tall and robust, soaring into the sky. At the top of a hill, the fort was surrounded by forest, except at its south where a cliff led directly to a lake, and on the east side where they had grown a vast crop of corn. This place didn’t exist to the unfamiliar eye, national maps didn’t show it, and most local ones didn’t mention it either.

They had nearly missed it themselves the first time they had been here, even though Bobby’s map from his military days clearly showed it on the edge of the forest. Dean drowsily recalled the first day they had found themselves here.

Bobby had looked at his map in confusion, checking it for the hundredth time as if it would somehow reveal a secret passage to the underworld.

Dean had sighed, dropping his backpack next to a rock and sitting on top of it, torn between the relief filling his lungs because he hadn’t put much faith in this so-called fort either way, and the sorrow constraining his ribcage as he watched Sammy and Lydia. Their shoulders gradually sagged, backs turned to Dean, still standing, still holding on to this goddamn pipe dream. They had met Lydia a couple of months before. Despite Dean’s best efforts and the little voice inside his head being adamant about not taking her in, they all had accepted her into their group in the end. No matter how much trauma still filled Dean’s dreams at night, he wasn’t a cold-hearted asshole, and who could say no to a pregnant woman all by herself in the middle of an old grocery store?

Bobby and Sammy were about the only family Dean had ever known and cared about, and he would do anything to protect them. He worried that bringing a child into this chaos would cause them insurmountable trouble. Still, he couldn’t ignore the ounce of humanity flickering inside him, imagining those little newborn eyes looking up at him.

A few months had passed before Lydia’s belly made it impossible to ignore the reality that she wouldn’t be able to keep up with their nomad life for much longer. That’s when Bobby had the idea of finding a safe place for them to settle down. Dean wasn’t sure how he felt about it; moving from place to place had been all he had ever known since he was four years old. Living too long in the same area not only seemed dangerous, but it also sounded so close to what life used to be before the Croats that his mind couldn’t even fathom them living like that anymore.

Bobby put down the map, taking off his baseball cap long enough to scratch the top of his head. “Can’t be right. We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

“Bobby…”

“It’s not just the map, Dean. I was stationed here when I was young, for a short time, gotta give ya that, but I know it exists.”

“Young being the operative word, Bobby,” Dean smiled cheekily. “A lot of things happened since then. Dinosaurs ceased to exist.” He started counting with his fingers. “Man discovered fire.”

That had earned him a smack on the back of his head, and a heartfelt _Idjit_ grumbled between teeth. “Let’s go back to the main road. Gotta be that trail with the chain blocking it we saw on the way here. Told ya we should have gone there instead,” he said over his shoulder, already making his way down.

They had found it alright, and a couple of months later, Lydia was giving birth to a beautiful baby girl. They both died on that same day.

Dean startled awake.

“We’re here!” Charlie announced, shaking Dean’s shoulder enthusiastically.

Dean rubbed the sleep away from his eyes, trying to wipe away Lydia’s image burned to the inside of his eyelids. He had drifted off for only a short amount of time, but the brief dream was just enough to put him in an even worse mood.

An expanse of robust walls loomed over them, their white-washed muddled beneath a myriad of vines that slithered up the surface. They drove along the fortified walls, surrounded by a moat lined with spears jabbed into the ground. A few Croats were stuck on them, their rotting bodies mushy enough to easily get pierced by the pointed end; others were gradually piling up at the bottom of the moat. Dean let out a sigh; they would have to come out soon for another round of clean up. They stopped in front of the heavy, rusty iron gate topped with a sign that read _No place is safe, only safer_.

“Hey, are you okay?” Charlie asked, throwing him a concerned look.

“Yeah, ‘m fine. Just tired.”

She gave him a small nod, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as they waited for the gate to open. They led both trucks to the inside of the two-story room; a similar gate waited for them on the opposite wall; the wide metal barrier remained closed, keeping them away from the inside of the fort.

“Step out of the vehicle,” came the croaky voice from the megaphone. “Hands behind your head.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Does he always have to act like he’s talking to a bunch of criminals?”

Charlie took the keys out of the ignition and shrugged. “Just roll with it; you know he’s even more of a dickhead when you talk back.”

They got out of the truck, landing on the brown, tiled ground. _Welcome to detention,_ Dean thought sourly to himself. Detention, or how the others used to call it, scanning center, had been Kevin’s idea. They had boarded up the windows and reconfigured the cold metal walled space to serve as a checkpoint before allowing entrance into the Keeper. The area was wide enough to accommodate four trucks at a time, with two ladders on either side, leading to a balcony that encircled the room’s entirety. Both lateral walls were flanked by different interlinked check rooms, each with a large, centered window that enabled a direct view into the main room where they stood, although most of them had the curtains closed. “Hands behind your head,” Cole repeated from the balcony.

They did as instructed. Dean looked up, smiling at the M4 clasped between Cole’s hands. “Good to see you too.”

Cole didn’t bother to reply, pointing with his head to the first door on the right.

_Asshole._ Sighing, Dean watched the women move as directed. Dean and Ash went to the opposite side, where he waited with his fingers entwined at the back of his neck for Ash to enter the first door and start the screening. Dean waited a few minutes before being given the okay to step inside as well.

The first room was no more than four by four feet; bare save for a single stool on the right and a copper laundry basket on the left. Dean took off all his clothes and put them in the basket.

He moved to the next room, wincing when his bare feet touched the cold tile. He took one of the clean, neatly folded towels from one of the shelves to his right and leaned over the wide metal container at the center of the room. He soaked the towel with water from the container and started cleaning his body. His hands moved methodically, muscle memory taking over from all the times he’d done this before — first his face, followed by the torso and arms, and lastly his legs and feet. By the time he was done, the once green fabric was smeared with a mix of red and brown. He left the towel by the container and grabbed another one to dry himself.

The holding room was the third and had been the last stop for some. A strong, pungent smell invaded Dean’s nose as he entered. The dimly lit white walls were blemished with a few stubborn reddish stains despite their best attempts to clean them up. They hadn’t had any Infected in a while, but the smell of bleach was still very much present, ingrained in the walls and polished floor. Any Infected were as good as dead, and they were treated like one too. Most of them locked away in this room with a bullet between their eyes before they even started to turn. Dean didn’t exactly agree with the method, but it had gotten them this far. He crossed the room to the door on the opposite side, going straight for the only source of light illuminating the room — a dark metallic door with a small grilled window close to the ceiling. Dean knocked, and after a few silent beats, the door creaked loudly as the service hatch at the center of it opened.

“Hands,” came the terse order from the other side.

Dean swallowed a snark reply and complied, shoving his hands through the opening and soon feeling the cold handcuffs locking with a click around his wrists.

Dean rolled his neck side to side, enjoying the relief that came with hearing it popping, and tried not to let his frustration get the best of him. He was beat, and he was pissed with Gordon, but most of all, if he was honest with himself, he was fucking furious he had lost control like that and almost nuked two people he cared about. Dean was all too aware of his condition. He had had enough practice in his time when he was still young and stupid, reckless enough to let it happen of his own free will. A single scratch was enough to send him over the edge. He just had to take off his necklace and let it happen. The feeling of freedom that came with letting go was like an addictive shot of adrenaline that he embraced whenever he could, but he had always made sure no one was around to get their asses burnt along with him. However, the visions, the world of darkness that plagued him whenever he let go, grew more vivid each time it happened. Over time, not even his addiction to it was enough to face them. That had been years ago; Dean had almost forgotten what it felt like to be on the other side and just how much it took for his body to recover.

The door burst open to reveal a pinched-face Victor, his wide-stance blocking Dean from immediately entering. His rifle was secured to his back, the sling clasping his torso tightly and pulling at the collar of his shirt enough to reveal the wide scar underneath. Dean had never asked for details; the short resume of how his wife had tried to kill him after she had turned was enough for Dean to get the damned picture, and probably the reason why Victor was such an ass during screening. He moved away for Dean to enter, closing the door behind him.

“I see the welcome party is as warm as always,” Dean grunted.

“Hey, you’re one to talk.” Sam emerged from behind the desk, paper in hand, as he finished checking Ash. “You helped come up with this system, remember? Can’t complain now.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Dean waved a dismissive hand but smiled back.

“You’re good,” Sam announced to Ash, taking off his handcuffs.

“Friggin’ finally,” the short, mullet-wearing guy turned, grabbing a clean pair of jeans paired with a gray shirt on the way out. “I need alcohol. And my sweet, sweet beauties.”

_That makes two of us,_ Dean thought darkly.

“Hey,” Sam shouted, not taking his eyes from his annotations. “I’m making notes on which clothes you’re taking. I’m trusting you’ll return them by tomorrow. If you do a repeat of last time, I’m confiscating your porn.”

“Don’t touch my beauties!” Ash’s warning was muffled by the door, steadily fading as he got into the truck parked back in the main room, and the engine roared to life.

“That’s a bit extreme,” Dean gasped. “I mean, a man’s porn is sacred, not something you should mess around with.”

Sam rolled his eyes as he finished his notes. “I think I’m being reasonable here. As soon as he gets back his clothes, it’s only logical he returns the ones he borrowed, right? It’s a simple method.” He placed his pencil down at Dean’s raised eyebrows. “An effective one,” he added.

Dean tried to raise both hands in a _whatever you say_ gesture, temporarily forgetting he still had the handcuffs on. “So…” He let his hands fall back down while Victor kept checking for bite marks. “How’s things around here?”

“Quiet,” Sam replied. “Though _some people_ were getting a bit restless with your absence.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, “I’ve heard about Gordon’s bullshit idea.”

Victor sent him a disapproving frown. “You’ve been gone for two weeks.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve missed me.”

“He’s clear,” Victor announced to Sam, who immediately went back to his scribbles. “We’ve been running low on supplies. Something had to be done,” he said, eyes back on Dean.

Dean tsk’ed.

“You know getting naked means taking off _everything_ ,” he said dryly, reaching for Dean’s necklace.

Dean jerked out of reach. “You touch it, and I’ll bite your arm off.”

“Don't need to be so touchy about it.” Victor stepped back. “What's the deal with it anyway? I never really understood why it matters so much to you.”

Sam’s breath hitched for a moment as he threw Dean a knowing look. Besides Sam, not many people knew about his — _condition_ — just a small, close group of people, usually the ones who went with Dean on supply runs. It was only fair to let them know what they were getting themselves into. Dean boldly leaned in closer to Victor. “And as far as I'm concerned,” he rasped. “You'll never find out.”

Yeah, so maybe he was overreacting. It was just a harmless question. One that he had answered — and lied about — a thousand times throughout his life, but he just wanted to get this over with, and dealing with Victor’s sudden curiosity was the last thing on his mind right now. The moment that Croat had taken his necklace was still weighing on him, along with the visions that came with it, the piercing red eyes calling for him, _Give it!_ Its demand only stopped by ocean eyes, the kindness in them enough to bring light to a world of darkness.

Victor sneered and uncuffed Dean.

Dean contemplated Victor’s churlish expression as the cuffs clicked open. His eyes lacked even an ounce of the kindness he had seen in the stranger’s eyes. _Ugh_. Dean needed a good night's sleep.

“I’m done for the day.” Victor straightened his back until it cracked and headed for the gray, metallic cabinet in the corner. He put his gun back into safe mode before carefully putting it back in its place. “Also,” he paused on his way to the door, turning swiftly to face Dean. “This time, wash the trucks after you’re done unloading your stuff. Last time there were Croats’ remains in places I didn't even think possible. It’s not our job to clean up after you.”

Dean remained silent until the door closed behind Victor. “He must be fun at parties,” Dean said, pointing with his thumb.

“You know, you should take it easy on him.” Sam leaned against the desk.

Dean gave him a dirty look.

“I’m serious,” Sam continued. “On Gordon too, once he gets back. It’s been… a rough couple of weeks.”

“You’re telling me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’.”

“How was your trip?”

“Same old same old. The place was mostly looted. We found some good furniture, though.”

Sam perked up. “That’s good news for the girls!” He got up, brushing a loose strand of hair away from his face. “Becky is always talking about renewing the classroom.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Found some utensils Bobby and Ellen might find useful.” His face dropped slightly. “No food, though…”

Sam’s grin faded. “Don’t worry. We’ll get lucky soon. Besides, there’s always gardening.” He gripped Dean’s shoulder, watching him for a moment’s silence.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m still _butt naked_!”

“Shit!” Sam pulled away like he had been burned. “I totally forgot,” he grimaced.

Dean shook his head with a smile, picking up the first pair of shoes and jeans that fit, not bothering with a shirt. “Speaking of gardening. How’s the growth? Good?”

“Yeah, Sarah says it’ll be our best harvest so far.”

“Awesome!” He buttoned his pants, as Sam opened the curtains, and looked out of the window to the main area where the remaining truck was parked. Anna and Bela should be done by now in the opposite rooms, where they performed the female screening.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’re fine,” Sam replied in response to Dean’s searching eyes. “Otherwise, we would be hearing the alarm by now.”

“Sure they are…” _Except for the fact they were almost blown to pieces._

“Dean?” Sam stopped at the door on his way to the holding room. It was his turn to clean up after Dean and Ash.

“Hmm?”

“Everything _is_ okay, right?”

“Yeah.” Dean mustered up a smile. “Golden. You worry too much, little brother.” He patted his brother’s back on his way out. “Just tired, that’s all. Need my four hours.”

He went back to the two-story room where his truck waited. The side door was open. At first glance, everything looked the same, until he noticed their weapons were gone. _The fuck!_ “You better hope there’s not a goddamn scratch on them next time I see them!” Dean shouted, knowing it was useless to argue. No weapons were allowed inside the Keeper unless you were on patrol duty; everything was confiscated upon arrival and kept in the armory next door. Bobby had suggested it in one of their weekly assemblies, and it had seemed like a great idea at the time. Right now, though, Dean just wanted to kick the prick who had unceremoniously taken his babies. He looked around, expelling all the air through his nose. The welcoming party was gone, probably a sign that they had all passed the _zombie-free test._

He went to the driver’s side and honked the truck’s horn before getting in. “Can someone get the gate?” he yelled, drumming his fingers on the wheel until a series of loud grumbles filled the room, followed by the piercing, lengthy screeches of the gate opening up to the chilly night’s air.

Dean drove through the courtyard that surrounded the inside of the walls, smiling at the largest and most fortified structure at the center that he liked to call home. He parked the truck between Ash’s and the row of storage houses that took up most of the right side of the field; he turned off the engine and grabbed his backpack before climbing out. He sat by the fort’s entrance stairs to wait for Bela and Charlie, wincing as he sagged against the cold, flat surface.

The moon hung large high above, and Dean closed his eyes as its fluorescent silver briefly got eclipsed by a wispy cloud. He smiled up as its dim light peeked out shyly once again, casting each surface in a muted brightness. A peaceful silence filled the chill of the night, its inky sky dotted with a million different stars almost lulling Dean into a sleep-like state. For a moment, he wished he could dream of that instead of all the nightmares that plagued his nights — to burn as bright and as freely as a star, to be as destructive as they were but carefree nonetheless; no pain, no fear, just pure fire.

His thoughts came to a halt with the snap of a twig. Dean’s eyes snapped open — besides the swaying of trees and rustling of leaves, everything seemed as motionless as before. The walls were high enough that no one, dead or alive, would be able to climb them easily; they were flanked on all corners by watchtowers, four in total. Each night someone was on duty at each tower, with two more people responsible for patrolling the ground on the inside walls. Even though Dean couldn’t see them from here, he knew they were out there keeping an eye on things.

Despite not being able to rely on his vision, Dean’s ears didn’t fail him when another twig snapped at his left. Closer now, just from around the corner.

Dean reached behind for the pocket knife he had hidden in one of the side pockets of his bag. In two long-legged strides, he had his back to the wall of the main building holding his breath as he saw the shadow getting deliberately near.

“Hold it!”

“Gotcha!” Dean barked at the same time, launching forward and grabbing the unknown skinny arm, throwing the person against the wall, and pinning them there with his knife against their throat.

“Dean?” Jody shrieked.

Dean’s eyes widened as he looked up from where the blade pressed dangerously close to drawing blood to Jody’s perplexed expression.

“What the hell, boy?”

Dean immediately pulled the knife away, only then feeling the blunt tip of the pistol pressed at the center of his chest as she held him at gunpoint.

“Do you wanna get shot?!” Jody continued, lowering the gun.

“Shit! Sorry!” Dean took a step back. He inhaled a deep breath and blew out slowly, hating the way his body was still reeling on the adrenaline rush left from the turmoil his body had gone through; this last supply run had really taken a toll on him.

To be fair, how could he have guessed? One could never be too careful, not even inside these walls; he tried the rough excuse inside his head, trying not to think about how many almost-deaths he was piling up in a single week. Shit, he needed some shut-eye and soon. “Not my fault you move like a damn Croat,” he joked instead.

“Hey!” Jody slapped him in the shoulder. “Croats usually growl to announce their arrival.”

Dean laughed. “Fair enough.”

“How ya doing?” Jody returned her pistol to the leather holster at her hip and hugged him. “Didn’t know you were back,” she added, stepping back.

Dean scrunched his nose. “They were supposed to warn you. Exactly so that this situation,” he gestured between them, “wouldn’t happen.”

“Yeah, they probably missed me during my round. But the others,” she pointed to the towers, “are probably aware, or you would have been shot by now.”

Dean sneered, “Good to know my ass won’t get an extra hole tonight.” He went back to his bag, safely hiding his knife from prying eyes.

Jody sat with him on the stairs, pulling her jacket to the side to retrieve a rusty gum tin and a plastic bag from the inside pocket. She pulled open the tin, removing a squared paper; holding it carefully between her fingers, she pulled the plastic bag open with her free hand and spread the tobacco evenly along the crease. Jody brushed off the extra leaves, tongue sticking out as she finished the job with a satisfied hum. She reached for her pocket again, retrieving a lighter with a pin stuck at the bottom.

They had celebrated for a straight week when they had found the nine containers of gas. It wasn’t much, not enough to supply the whole fort anyway. But it made all the difference in small, daily tasks — like refilling lighters.

“Those things will be the death of you.”

“Better go by these babies than one of the _uglies_ outside.”

Dean huffed. “Can’t say you’re wrong.”

Cigarettes, Dean thought mournfully, had to count as a small victory, even though he couldn’t stand the smell of them. They had found a tobacco factory nearby, and Jody, along with a couple of others, always made a point of stopping by whenever they were out on a supply run.

“Lisa is looking for you,” she said after a moment, bringing the cigarette to her mouth and closing her eyes after the first drag.

“When isn’t she?” Dean scoffed and leaned back on his hands, hoping the hint of annoyance in his voice wasn’t too obvious.

Jody side-eyed him, expelling all the smoke at his face in a silent _‘don’t be a dick.’_

“Hey!” he waved the smoke from his face. To be fair, Lisa had been nothing but patient since they had broken up. That was one of the things that had made him fall for her in the first place. Well, that and those brown doe eyes with matching hair that came along with the idea of a family and a boy at hand.

Lisa and Ben had given Dean everything he wanted, and yet, somehow, he had managed to fuck it all up. It’s not like he regretted the decision of ending things with Lisa, but he wished he had given them more than disappointment and heartbreak. Sometimes he just wished he could go back and erase their memories of the time they had together.

“It’s Ben,” Jody continued, apparently choosing to ignore how Dean had spaced out. “He tried to run away again.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Dean stated firmly before a chill of wind made his whole body shiver; he hugged himself, wishing he had taken the time to put on a shirt after all.

“And I think Becky has officially lost her marbles waiting for your return.” Jody blew out the smoke in three quick puffs, wafting three perfect circles against the night’s sky. “When I asked, her cryptic answer was _‘it’s urgent’_.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “A damn pack of lube isn’t exactly an emergency and not high on my to-do list.”

Jody hummed, squashing the end of the cigarette on the asphalt. “I suppose that’s a yes then,” she said, visibly amused.

“Yeah, I got it…” Dean muttered in defeat.

Jody laughed, wiping her hands on her pants before getting up. “Anyway, I should get going. Don’t forget to give her the news before she loses it for good.”

“Sure…” Dean tugged at his ear, staring at the ground.

“Please, don’t show your enthusiasm all at once; you’re overwhelming me, man,” she threw him an exasperated look before turning to leave.

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to her,” he muttered, “eventually,” he added more to himself than to Jody, who had disappeared behind the corner of the building. Dean ran a hand over his face, trying to stifle a yawn; it was a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to having. Dean cringed whenever he thought about Becky’s long and awkward explanation about how lube was somehow essential to keep her and Alfie‘s relationship alive and well. He had stopped her just as she was about to give him details on exactly how they would use it on Alfie. Dean glanced at his backpack, resting a hand over it, so yeah, maybe he had slipped another pack of lube into his belongings as well, finders keepers and all that, he would still deny it to his grave.

“What’s up, bitch?” Charlie called out cheerfully, walking swiftly with Bela close behind.

Dean raised an unimpressed eyebrow at her. “Really?”

“I’ve always wanted to say that,” she confided, giddy like a child.

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean shook his head and pointed at the scanning center’s wide gate they had just crossed. “What took you so long?”

“Why are you almost naked?” Bela countered. “Again.”

“I’m wearing pants.” Dean pulled at the sides of the pants, stretching the fabric a couple of times to make his point.

“And you’re gonna catch a cold soon,” Charlie finished the argument putting her arm over his shoulders like he was a freakishly tall baby, leading him inside. “Let’s get some well-deserved rest.”

xxx

Dean woke up to the sound of children laughing as they ran down the hall. It was a good sound, he decided with a smile. A joyful sound that pulled him from his three-day sleep seclusion and brought him back to his early years where the streets were safe, and he was naive and brave enough to let go of his mother’s hand and run along through the fresh-cut grass to join the other kids on the playground. The first waves of the plague had already started in Europe, but behind their borders, Americans felt safe and out of harm’s way.

“Be careful,” Mary had warned from behind, and he knew she meant more than a casual reminder not to get hurt.

Dean was three the first time he had lost control. He had always been a curious kid, as his father used to say, curious enough to stretch himself high on his tiptoes to grab the carving knife forgotten on the counter. He had been lucky, at least he hadn’t died, and when you put it like that, it doesn’t seem so bad — just a small cut on his finger, deep enough to draw blood and a wave of tears streaming from surprised eyes, confused by such a new feeling. He had never cut himself before, never really got hurt either. A few bumps, but nothing too serious, never that sharp, white cold pain that hits the lungs as fast as it does the brain. He staggered back with a sobbing yelp, but it was too late then. By the time he opened his eyes again, he was motionless on the floor, his mother’s face coming into focus as she urged him to talk to her. “Mommy,” had been all he had managed to give before the strong, sharp smell of smoke invaded his nose. Moments later, they were by the porch, men Dean didn’t know rushed inside as Mary talked to him about something he couldn’t understand. The explosion that had destroyed the kitchen would eventually be classified as an accident.

The reason behind it would remain a mystery until it happened a second time and a third, and then another, each one occurring after Dean got hurt. All the evidence became too much for them to ignore — by some crazy fucked-up reason, Dean was the one causing the fires. Whenever he got cut, whenever there was blood drawn, he would turn into a human torch and explode, burning everything and _everyone_ around him. By the time he turned four, he was all too aware of his “condition" — as his father called it — to avoid wandering off too much, even if it was for a simple hide and seek in the local park.

Dean rushed across the playground as his friend Cassie counted to ten. He looked around, inspecting several hiding spots, finally deciding on the bench at the far left of the playground close by the tree line. Dean crunched behind it, his still too innocent ears not making anything of the soft, but decisive, steps making their way to him as he buried his head between his legs, arms closing tightly around them.

“Hello, Dean,” the friendly, gravelly voice made Dean pull his head from the shelter of his arms.

“Hello,” he said back, trying for politeness, but failing to hide the mistrust around the edges of his tone. “How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot of things about you,” the stranger got closer, his tan trench coat floating aimlessly behind him as he kneeled, the blue in his eyes catching the sunlight in a way that would stay engraved in Dean’s mind for years. “For example, I know what happens when you get hurt,” he continued, voice calm and reassuring despite the revelation.

Dean lowered his eyes. “Mommy said I shouldn't talk about that to anyone but her, daddy, and unc’ Bobby.”

“That's a wise piece of advice. One that you should always follow. In fact, you don't have to talk.” The stranger reached out slender fingers, opening them to reveal a round, dark object, nestling in his palm. “I just need you to keep this for me.”

“What is that?” Dean eyed the object suspiciously.

“Something to help with your situation.” He held the stone between two fingers, eyes patiently watching as Dean inspected the object warily before summoning up the courage to close his fingers around it.

Dean felt immediately at ease, the black stone fitting the palm of his hand as if it had been made for it. It looked bigger in his hands as he held his present with care, the dark of the surface refracting the light and wrapping Dean in comfort and quietness.

“Do you accept it?”

“Yes,” came the instant murmur, as Dean silently wished he would never have to part from it ever again.

_‘You won't_.’ Dean could almost swear he had heard the man say before his mother's voice shouted for him on the opposite side of the park. He jumped to his feet, waving for her and yelling ‘ _mommy_ ’ until her soft eyes landed on him, all the worry dissipating from her until Mary was smiling back at him.

“Thank y—” he turned to say, but the stranger was already gone — only the dark, round present settled in Dean's hands serving as proof of the man's existence.

It wouldn't take long for Dean to realize the strange stone had more than just a soothing effect on him — as long as it was in contact with him, his outbursts never happened again.

By the time his parents were convinced of the stone's powers, the image of blue eyes and tan trench coat was already fading from his mind, buried deep inside the blood-curdling screams filling their nights and the gruesome sights staining their days. The dead were rising, and the human race quickly headed to extinction, but at least armored with his necklace Dean wouldn't be a burden to the ones he loved.

_Right?_


	4. The Anthropophagi Virus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this fic hasn't been heavy on destiel so far, but that's about to change!!!! so get ready for lots of destiel fluff, angst, pining and everything else from now on :)

_"Do you accept it?”_

“Wait!” Dean screamed into his empty room, instinctively reaching for the necklace hanging loosely around his neck, taking comfort in the cold weight against his skin as he chased away the image of his parents’ charred bodies. He dropped his head into the pillow, pressing his hands to his eyes and curling into a ball, unable to hold back a muffled cry. He held his necklace to his lips, feeling the familiar ache in his chest. The faint blue already scattered in his mind, the distant memory only a blur that sometimes visited him in between his constant nightmares.

He took his time to get dressed, thankful for the excuse not to have to face the world on the other side of the door just yet.

Dean’s bedroom wasn’t much, but it had been everything he needed when they first got to the Keeper, after a lifetime of mostly sleeping on the backseat of the Impala. Nestled between Sam’s and Bobby’s bedrooms on the south side of the dormitory on the first floor, it had a direct view of the lake.

He had kept the decor simple over the years — a queen-size bed centered on the wall by the window, with a bedside table next to it, and a dresser by the door on the opposite wall; a desk stood on the left by the entrance to the bathroom, all in a gray oak grain. There was also a floor mirror on the right to match the set.

Becky's voice met his first step outside his room. Dean froze, spine immediately going straight as an arrow as he closed his door as silently as he could, slowly moving along the corridor, doing his best to remain invisible as he reached the end of the hallway and turned left into safety. Dean made a hasty escape down the two flights of stairs leading to the main lobby, but before he could make his triumphantly unnoticed exit, Claire hopped in front of him. _Friggin’ great._

“Morning!” she said enthusiastically.

“Hey,” he said, not slowing the pace.

“Wanna buy a raffle ticket?”

“Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“We’ve been dismissed early.” Claire wrapped a curl of frizzy blonde hair around her finger, playing with it as she followed Dean to the backyard. “So? Wanna buy or not?”

Dean stretched his arms to the sun, yawning loudly before putting on his sunglasses, a hint of guilt nudging at his brain as he wished he would be left alone with his thoughts. “How much?”

She brushed her hair behind her ear, raising three fingers at Dean. “Three candles.”

Dean snorted. “Are you nuts?” He started walking again. “Even if I owned three candles, which I’m not saying I do.” He pointed a finger at her in a silent warning. “I wouldn’t pay all that for a raffle.”

“Okay!” she continued without vacillating. “What about one candle and a pair of shoes?”

Dean sent her a side-eye.

“Okay, fine!” She threw her hands in the air in defeat. “No candles, gotcha. A knife then.”

Dean stopped in his tracks, ignoring Claire’s yelp when she bumped against his back. “A knife? What kind of sale is your teacher running?”

“We don’t make the rules, okay? The black market does,” she grumbled, scrunching her nose before rubbing it. “Alright… How about one chapstick,” she raised her right index. “And one pair of shoes?” she added, lifting her middle finger.

Dean sighed inwards. “I’ll pay you later!”

Claire smiled triumphantly, pulling out a bright-red ticket from her back pocket. “Great doing business with you.”

“You mean, extorting me,” Dean whined, eyeing the ticket between his thumb and index with a grimace.

Claire patted his shoulder, feigning sympathy. “Life is rough.” She grinned. “Besides, this is for a good cause.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean raised his eyes from the red piece of paper. “How so?”

“Our profits go to buy a pet.”

Dean blinked at her. “Your teacher said that?”

“Yeah!”

“And how’s Sam planning on doing that?” Dean narrowed his eyes.

“Beats me.” Claire shrugged. “But he promised a pet for the classroom.”

“What kind of pet?”

“We’re fine with… any kind of pet, really.”

“Well, that’s… low expectations.”

“Domesticated animals aren’t exactly easy to come by, you know? Can’t afford to be picky.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Well, good luck then,” he turned to leave but paused, turning to Claire again. “By the way, do you know where Sam is?”

“He said he needed to do some research. But if you ask me, he was probably just dying to see Sarah.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s not like they’re freaking together all the time,” Dean remarked with irony.

“They make me sick too.” Claire made a face and laughed.

Dean sighed around a smile. “Well, I meant to pay her a visit anyway.”

The entire back yard was used for their plantation — peach, pear, orange, and cherry among other types of trees. A wide variety of vegetables included carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, garlic, and lettuce, just to name a few. Dean was quite proud of what they had achieved so far.

In the far back, sheltered by the fruit trees, was their insulated year-round greenhouse, where Sam and Sarah spent most of their time. The structure was made entirely of plastic film to let the sunlight fully inside and had been built so that the sidewalls could be opened or closed depending on the time of the year and the need to reduce or increase the temperature inside. It had taken them an entire summer to finish it, but it had been one of Dean’s best works yet. Even though everyone in the Keeper was tasked with helping, the mastermind behind it all was Sarah, a self-taught gardener.

Dean made his way between two rows of mint and headed to the back. The apple trees were in full blossom right now; it made the setting feel a bit like paradise.

Sarah was inside, shovel in one hand, watering can in the other, her long, black hair caught in a bun at the top of her head. She seemed tired but confidently happy.

“Hey, beautiful,” Dean greeted with a smile.

“Dean!” She turned, putting down the watering can to hug him. “Sorry I didn’t go see you. I meant to but—”

“No worries,” he interrupted. “You're clearly busy,” he smiled at her soil smudged face. “And with good news, I hope.”

She smirked. “Come here.” She took three quick strides along the smooth floor, tiled in a mosaic of pale gold and ivory stone slabs, to the table on the central aisle, which was framed by rows of several different crops. She put a pot on top of the table; at the center a slender trunk, the first leaves, and tendrils budding. “They're thriving. I’m about to take them outside. Maybe next year, we’ll have grapes.” She took off her gloves and picked a dead leaf from the pot. “Sam says they’re not ready, but I'm a bit more positive.”

“Don’t mind him. He likes his reality check every two minutes. A bit of positivity doesn't hurt.”

Sarah snorted and looked at him funny. “You're one to talk.”

“Yeah, well,” he scratched the nape of his neck, “I can be positive when it comes to plants.”

She smirked. “So…” She extended both her hands and stared at him, waiting. “Where is it?”

“Who says I have something for you?”

“You always do.”

“You got me.” He took the small package from his pocket and handed it to Sarah.

She immediately raised it above her head to inspect it under the sunlight. “What is it?” she asked with a frown between her brows.

“You tell me, I'm not the seed expert.”

“Hmm, we can always put it in the ground and let it surprise us,” she said with a determined nod before roaming around looking for another pot.

“Well, I’ll leave it to you, then. Have you seen Sam by any chance?”

“Not recently. But he’s probably at his favorite place.”

“Besides here, you mean?” Dean smiled, turning, already aiming for the second place his nerd ass brother was most likely holed up in.

The Keeper’s main floor was split down the middle by a long spacious arched hallway, the plaster of the walls turned a light caramel with age, and Dean loved the way it made the lengthy space cozier. Each side boasted several large marble pedestals that most likely once held statues of ancient deities; between each pedestal were arched doorways leading to large rooms. When lit, the shadows cast from the row of crystal and brass chandeliers hanging high overhead dappled the polished white marble floor with patterns in gray. Reminiscent of an ancient monastery or grand castle, that image in itself had been enough to sell Bobby when they had first arrived here.

But for Sam, it all came down to the first room on the right, with it’s muted-golden walls and floor to ceiling windows, framed by dark wooden shelves and rows of books stretching overhead as far as the eye could see. Dean would never forget the look of both wonder and disbelief on his brother’s face as he’d hurried inside. It was like watching Sammy taking a step home after so many years stranded. That had been the moment Dean had decided this was the right goddamn place for them after all.

Dean entered the library, ambling along the labyrinth of bookcases to the far left corner where he knew the lone table was holed up in the back, surrounded on both sides by the lucent, golden morning sunlight.

“Hey!” Sam greeted, putting down his pencil to stretch his arms above his head.

“Morning, nerd. Whatcha doin’?”

Sam watched him with bright eyes, the same ones that had looked up to his older brother ever since they were kids; that was one thing that had never changed, not even after Dean had told Sam about the darkness living inside him. Sam was six and had been drawing then, a dog, one of his favorite things to draw. The question had come out of nowhere. “Why can’t you take off your necklace,” he asked, not taking his eyes from the drawing.

Dean had told him what happened when he got hurt without the necklace to keep the fire monster at bay. Once he was done, he waited for his brother’s reaction, breath stuck in his lungs, so sure that Sammy would just get up and run away. But instead of looking at Dean like the freak he was, Sam had promised he would find a way to heal the _boo-boo_.

Dean had stared at him for the longest time, completely dumbstruck; he didn’t have the heart to tell him that he had been the one to cause the death of their parents. Only many years later did he muster up the courage to let Sam know, but again his brother surprised him with the echoed promise of their childhood — to find him a cure no matter what, eyes filled with respect and admiration that Dean knew he didn’t deserve.

“Dean! Earth calling Dean.” Sam waved a hand in front of Dean’s face.

_Fuck._ “Yeah!” Dean cleared his throat.

“You zoned out hard just now, man. Where were you?”

“In the past…” Dean averted his gaze from Sammy’s, focusing on the book in his hands instead, the sight of the black leather cover leaving a bad taste in the back of his mouth. “Reading that damn thing again?” he said, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat at the memory of what that book had almost cost them.

Sam looked down at it like he was surprised the object was still in plain view. He usually kept his research to himself, and they avoided discussing the book at all costs. If it were up to Dean, he would have destroyed the damned thing a long time ago; getting that book had almost cost Sam’s life, and when it came down to it, if Sammy’s life were ever on the line again, Dean wouldn’t hesitate in destroying the book himself if he had to. Cure be damned.

“Dean,” Garth’s head shot out from behind a column of books just as Sam slammed the black book closed.

“What is it?” Dean immediately knew something was wrong by the alarm in his voice.

“It’s Gordon,” he rasped. “They’re back.”

xxx

Dean was halfway to the scanning center when the alarm bells rang. _Shit_. Dean thought with a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t even reached the side door that led to the screening area’s main room, but he knew things were about to go belly up.

As soon as he opened the door, Tara was on him. “Please understand.” She clasped the front of his shirt with a white-knuckled grip.

“What happened?”

“Jeff was clearing the last room of the house. I… I was just after him and then… and then it happened, out of nowhere. We didn’t see him. The Croat was too fast; before I could even move, it bit Jeff. There was nothing I could do; please believe me.”

“Okay, just,” Dean slowly eased the grip on his shirt, “go get yourself checked and then get some rest.”

“But I’m okay.”

“It’s protocol!” he said, tone clear and authoritative enough for her not to defy it. “Just do it!”

“Come,” Sam said, his composed figure coming up behind her, arms already leading her to the screening rooms on the left side of the center.

Dean waited for them to cross the room before darting to the opposite side.

“Tell me,” he demanded as soon as he opened the door to the last male screening room.

Kevin was alone, sitting at the center of the room, his hands grasping the hem of his shorts impossibly tight. He stood up, straight as an arrow, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he started talking, “The others are on the other side finishing the rest of the group screening. We want to be as methodical as possible.”

Dean nodded to the door that led to the holding room. “What about him?” he asked, not missing the fact he wasn’t using the other man’s name anymore.

“It’s bad,” Kevin confessed, his messy hair and the way he bit his nail showing a side of him Dean wasn’t used to seeing. A new wave of screams erupted from the holding room. “He’s already turning. I… I don’t know what to do, Dean.” His eyes flickered with tears. “He doesn’t… Jeff doesn’t deserve this.”

Dean put a steady hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go finish screening the others?”

“Dean…”

“Go on; I’ll join you later, okay?” Dean insisted, trying to put as much reassurance as he could muster in a smile, but settling for faking one.

“B—but.”

“Just go, Kevin… please.” _Don’t make this harder._

Dean had always been the one. Ever since they started this life in the fort, he had taken it upon himself to be the one to strike the last bullet when needed. Dean took out a gun from the gray, metallic cabinet in the corner where they kept extra weapons for this type of situation. Dean readied the gun, holding himself steady for a moment before pushing the door open with a loud screech.

_Just a Croat, it’s just another Croat._ Dean thought above the gut-wrenching screams filling Jeff’s distorted mouth, cut by a momentary plea for Dean to spare his life.

_Just a fucking Croat_. Dean chanted in his head as he aimed.

_Only a Croat._ Dean said and pulled the trigger.

_Croat, Croat, Croat,_ he repeated until he didn’t hate the word quite as much.

Dean could barely breathe when he exited the room; he wiped the thick layer of sweat covering his forehead and put the gun away, composing himself enough to join the others in the main room.

“Is it over?” Gordon was the first one to speak.

“You sonuvabitch!” Dean stormed toward him, grabbing him by the collar, his vice grip daring Gordon to fight back. “This is why we have rules!” he hissed, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he resisted Sam and Bobby’s attempts to separate them. “Lemme go, I’m gonna kick his ass,” he yelled. “This is why you don’t take rookies into a hot zone! What were you thinking?!”

“I was thinking we needed food!” Gordon heaved, massaging the side of his neck when Sam and Bobby finally succeeded in pulling Dean away. “And the kid knew exactly what he was getting himself into.” Dean’s body stiffened at the remark. “And because of that, now we have food,” Gordon continued, “so the way I see it, Jeff died a fucking hero. Which is all that any of us can hope for…”

Dean gritted his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re a damn fool if you believe in that.” His nails dug into the tender flesh of his palm, paying no attention to the rest of the crowd as he rushed out of the room.

A numbing haze filled Dean’s mind for the rest of the day; he spent most of the time curled up in his bed, trying to sleep to keep the rest of the damned world away, not minding the nightmares of dark eyes that waited for him on the other side.

xxx

“Alright, I know we’re all pretty shaken up by yesterday’s… events,” Bobby started their weekly assembly. “But this has to be done.”

They had started these meetings per Dean’s initiative, something Dean regretted right now since that made it impossible for him to call in sick and skip it. He had barely gotten any sleep; between nightmares of Jeff’s brain splattered all over the fucking floor and the constant, looming dark figure that always taunted him in his sleep, there was hardly time for any actual rest.

So here he was, Dean thought drily, looking around the room, which they so originally called, the assembly hall. Said room was the smallest room on the main floor, on the opposite side of the showers and bathroom. Inside, the walls were white and bare, with chairs filling the center, precisely twelve, one for each council member. Only they were allowed to attend the meetings, and by general agreement, they had all the authority when it came to making the important decisions for the future of the Keeper and its community.

The silence hung heavy in the air and grew with tension.

“We’re short on supplies,” Gordon started. “Food especially.”

Dean huffed. “Thought you said you got it.”

“Not nearly enough for all the mouths waiting to be fed,” he said with an edge of disdain. “Look, I know you’re upset.”

“Upset?” Sam spoke up. “If you had to murder someone—”

“Murder?” Gordon asked. “You don’t murder Croats! Jeff was already gone.”

“He was still lucid when I left,” Missouri intervened.

“But already turning, am I right?” Gordon pressed on. “C’mon, you’re the doctor, Missouri; you know better than any of us what that means.”

“Can we just get to the point and get this over with?” Charlie interrupted. “I don’t think any of us wants to be here more than is necessary.”

“If we want more food, we need more people, actual capable people,” Cole interjected. “Most of the group is either too young or getting too old for supply runs,” he continued, glancing at Rufus.

“I’m gonna pretend you looked at me because you like my pretty eyes.”

“In other words,” Cole continued, ignoring him. “We need to beef up the team. Recruit new people, train the ones we have properly, stop having to rely on a bunch of rookies who end up screwing things up.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, deciding to ignore the beginning of a headache hatching behind his eyes.

“Yeah, sure,” Ellen interjected. “Piece of cake, let me just go round the corner and bring you fresh blood,” she scoffed. “You think it’s that easy to find more people?”

“What about the Agora?” Victor spoke for the first time.

“No way!” Dean almost shot up from his chair but restrained himself. “That place is crawling with thieves and quacks. We’d only put ourselves more at risk.”

“More than we already are?” Gordon challenged. “We’re all at risk when we have a bunch of newbies to do the job. We need—”

“I’ll do another supply run!” Dean cut him off. “In three days, just enough to give us time to prep everything.”

“No!” Sam interjected from across the circle of chairs. “You just got here. You need to rest!”

“I rested enough,” he argued, eyes scanning around the room when no one replied. “Listen, I can do this, okay? Just give me a small team, and I can get you more supplies. The last place we looted isn’t done for yet. Now that I know my way around the place, getting in and out shouldn’t take us long.”

“I’ll go,” Jody offered.

Dean nodded, suddenly feeling a burst of gratitude for her.

“I’m going too.” Charlie raised her hand. “If you want easy access to the place, you’re gonna need someone that doesn’t actually get lost at the first turn.” She blew her chewing-gum until it popped and raised both her hands in defense. “Hey, just saying,” she added when Dean gave her the stink-eye.

xxx

Three mornings later, Dean got up with a determined roll of shoulders. He took a quick shower, not minding the cold, bitter droplets against his skin, and put on one of his favorite shirts, a red and deep green plaid one, with a simple black t-shirt beneath. He grabbed his backpack, readjusting his necklace on his way to the dining hall. He took a quick bite of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and stopped by Sam’s classroom before heading out.

“The Anthropophagi Virus,” Sam declared, “Is a rabies-like pathogen from the _Lyssavirus_ genus. The meaning of the word comes from the greek Anthropos — human-being; and phagos — eating. Which put together becomes?”

“Man-eating,” the students replied in tone.

“Correct.” Sam wrote the answer on the board. “From amongst other symptoms, it causes hyper-aggressiveness and the loss of many higher brain functions within its victim. Can anyone name other signs of this infection?”

“Fever,” someone replied.

“Confusion,” someone else added.

“Yes, that’s right, dementia can appear in later stages of the transformation, as well as slurred speech and excessive salivation. The full transformation can take a few hours up to a whole day.” Sam turned to scribble something on the board Dean couldn’t see from his point of view. “The origins of the virus are unclear,” he went on, “but multiple sources claim this virus is a mutated strain of the rabies virus. It’s present in the saliva of the host and can be transmitted by bites.”

“Teach, I have a question.”

“Yes, Samuel?”

“If it’s in the saliva. Couldn’t it pass on through kissing?”

The rest of the classroom laughed.

“Not exactly,” Sam dug his hand in the front pocket of his jeans. “It needs to have contact with the blood to infect a new host successfully.”

Dean smiled. Watching his brother like that — chalk at hand, a full classroom of kids, intently listening to his explanations, Dean couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t what Sammy was meant to do all along. Even if the world hadn’t gone to shit, this was probably where his brother would end up anyway. At least that had turned out alright.

Dean knocked, perching against the door’s glass to wave his little brother goodbye. Good luck, Sam mouthed. The underlying be safe, get back soon, was all too clear in his hazel eyes as he paused to watch Dean go before getting back to his students.

xxx

** 4 days later **

Charlie rolled down the pickup truck’s window about halfway and spat out her gum. Dean grimaced. “Does that shit even taste good?” Dean had informed their group that they hadn’t found any food, but that wasn’t exactly true; between cabinets of rotten food, Bela had found seven packages of gum. Dean had decided to leave it on quarantine until they were sure it wouldn’t give the entire fort several visits to the nearest toilet. Charlie had promptly offered herself as their guinea pig.

“It’s the apocalypse, not the time to be picky,” she said simply, not taking her eyes off the road.

The hotel stood brightly at the center of the city; they drove past it and continued until they reached the city’s south limits. They made a turn to the right — the back alley was as uninteresting as the ones they had checked before. Wild weeds and moss mostly covered the walls; scrubby plants poked from the cracks of the concrete, and weeds oozed around the slabs of the chipped and fractured sidewalk. Some ragged flyers were posted to a stretch of wall at the end of the street, its sickly-yellow paint peeling off at places, revealing the brick underneath.

“The apocalypse makes everyone so melodramatic,” Judy scolded, pointing with her chin to the black spray-painted words on a different wall. ‘God is dead, and we are in hell’, it said. “Who takes the time to write that? It’s ridiculous.”

Dean nodded. _We’re in hell alright,_ he thought melancholically to himself. Jody’s anger was justified. It was obvious to everyone that life had taken a turn south somewhere along the way; no need to put salt to the wound through bad graffiti.

A couple more ordinary roads, and they finally found something worth the trip. “A Costco!” Charlie chanted. They left the truck in the back alley to avoid attracting a group of Croats near the Costco with the truck’s noise and crossed two blocks without much hassle.

They spent the next two hours shopping. _Literally._ Shopping carts and everything. They had found a little piece of heaven; most shelves were empty, not surprisingly; and they spent more time than they should have to inspect the large store from top to bottom, but it was totally worth it because, in the end, they left with big ass smiles on their faces, two full carts worth of outdated food and a bunch of new items.

Dean found Charlie by the paint section, a painting between her hands, in it a woman in a long, red dress and a lilac umbrella had her back to the viewer, framed by autumn-yellow light and deep-brown trees, with dying leaves falling all around her. It was beautiful and sad at the same time.

“You should take it,” Dean said behind Charlie’s shoulder.

“There are more important things to take.” She looked behind with a sadness in her eyes and a half-convincing shrug.

“If we can find things that make us happy, we should enjoy them. Otherwise, what’s the point of all this?”

Charlie smiled warmly. “Okay, then.”

xxx

“So, let’s see,” Jody did a once over on their second trip back to the pickup truck. “Food is all loaded. Besides that, we have soap, duct tape, toothpaste, deodorant—”

“That’ll be especially appreciated,” Charlie interrupted, scrunching her nose.

“Seeds,” Jody continued, “three pairs of sneakers and a couple of books.” She handed those to Dean, putting the rest back in her bug-out bag.

“Yeah, Sammy’ll lose it over these.” Dean grinned, only pulling his eyes from the books when Jody hushed him.

“Do you hear it?”

The sounds got louder as they turned the corner. “Shit!” Charlie rasped. A group of around ten Croats blocked the road leading to their car.

“What do we do?”

“We round it.” Dean backed up two steps, utterly unaware of a tin forgotten on the ground until his foot collided with it, and the damned thing went flying across the street. The loud sound of metal echoed against the buildings for what seemed like forever. Dean looked up to find the petrified gazes of the other two females.

“Run!” Charlie’s scream sent a chill straight down Dean’s spine, and he realized that they weren’t the only ones moving.

Dean took out his gun just in case. In a place like this, shooting was probably more harmful than not — shooting meant noise, and more noise could attract even more groups nearby.

The Croats were gaining ground, and by the time they turned left again, Dean was pointedly ignoring the dull pain of his muscles protesting against the sudden sprint.

“Here!” Jody yelled a bit ahead of him, opening the lid of a pale-green dumpster.

“Eww, seriously?” Charlie complained but complied, followed by Dean.

The smell was fucking horrendous, but the dragged out snarls and wails coming from the other side of their plastic shelter were even more terrifying. Dean shut his eyes, forcing his throat not to immediately expel each breath of air he inhaled through his nose.

They waited for the sounds to die out for what seemed like hours and jumped out of the dumpster right after Dean confirmed the path was clear, racing in the opposite direction from where the Croats had disappeared.

They stopped on the next empty street; Dean bent over, hands gripping his knees tight as he tried to catch his breath. The alley was empty and silent save for the lone chirping of a bird overhead. Dean straightened up and watched it give another self-satisfied cheep before flying to the other end of the street, disappearing around the corner.

Jody took out a map, moving closer to Charlie to study the detailed outline of the area they were in. Dean left them to their avid discussion and took a look around, immediately checking each doorway as he slowly crossed the length of the alley, trying to force each one open to no avail.

As he got closer to the end of the street, the sound of Croats picked up again, mixed with the faint cheep of more birds. Dean glanced at Jody and Charlie, who were still engrossed with the map, before pressing his back against the wall to peek around the corner.

The wide-open square was surrounded by clear glass buildings reflecting the garden at the center, with streets that got lost in the overgrowth of greens. Cracks lazily crisscrossed the pavement filled with bumps and dips from the roots that had reclaimed its space. The never-ending solitude was ever so often broken by the piercing screeches of a large group of Croats circling a white and blue van with the words _Fresh Ice Cream_ written on top.

“We should take advantage of that,” Charlie whispered next to him, nodding to the group. “They’re so distracted by the van, they won’t notice if we cross to the other side.” She pointed to the opposite row of buildings. “That should take us back to our truck.”

Dean murmured his assent and adjusted the strap of the backpack on his shoulder, his legs already contracting in anticipation for the next run. “Let’s g—” Dean’s sprint was aborted when his eyes landed on the black Yamaha motorcycle parked next to the ice cream van.

Dean’s heart raced to twice its speed, his mind flashing with images of blue eyes and dark hair. He had seen that bike before, right after the stranger had disappeared. Was it his? Was the person inside the van right now that man?

“Wait!” Dean screeched, raising his hand to stop the other two.

“There’s someone inside that van.”

“And we care why?”

“Just a few days ago, we were talking about recruiting. This could be our chance.”

“We almost got our asses served to a bunch of Croats, and you’re thinking about recruiting? This is so not the time, Dean.”

“Okay, okay.” Dean stepped backward. “Remember when I went nuke?”

“Yeah?” Charlie looked at him, forehead puckering as she nodded.

“The explosion didn’t just stop. There was a guy there. He…” Dean swallowed hard and tried again. “He somehow stopped it. He saved our necks. And I think he’s in there.” Dean gestured to the van behind him.

“What?” Charlie took a step backward, the line between her eyebrows deepening when she realized what Dean meant.

“You went nuke? W—when?” Jody’s eyes widened.

“On our last run.”

“Okay, but what makes you think that guy is in there?” Charlie approached him, the muscles in her face tightening as she looked at Dean like he had lost his mind. And maybe he fucking had.

“The bike. I saw that bike that day, right after the guy disappeared.”

“You went nuke… And Charlie survived how? And who is this guy? And what does a bike have to do with this?” Jody let out an exasperated breath. “My head hurts!”

“Please…” Dean heaved the broken word. “I need you to distract the Croats while I get the guy out,” he said shortly. The decision was made even before his mind had time to come up with a plan.

“W—wait, what?” Jody stammered.

Dean opened his mouth, but Charlie beat him to the punch. “To be honest, if the guy did all that, I kinda owe him one.” She blew a lock of hair away from her face. “Besides, not gonna lie, now I’m curious, aren’t you?”

“I guess…” Jody hesitated before pressing her lips into a line and exhaling through her nose.

Dean looked down, distractedly flattening a cardboard box against the asphalt with his foot. “Listen. You stick your necks out for me more than I can count. And I hate to ask you to do it again, but I need to do this. I… I owe the guy.”

Jody looked thoughtfully at the van for a split second, hesitation giving way to a decisive line between her brows. “We should attract them in that direction.” She pointed to where they were supposed to head to reach their pickup truck. “Charlie and I will lure them that way, then run to our truck and try to lose them from there. Once the path is clear, you run to the van, get the guy and wait for us. I’ll find a way to drive back here and get you.”

Dean released a grateful breath for these two, who he had learned to love and care for as family. “Okay!” He nodded firmly.

Jody raced to the other side, with Charlie following close behind after wishing Dean good luck.

Dean took out his axe, gripping his gun in his other hand as he watched the two women lure the Croats away from the van — yelling and kicking a pair of trash cans like they were their personal punching bags.

As soon as the Croats were successfully lured out of the way, Dean rushed to the center of the square, slicing and beheading a couple of remaining undead still growling at the van, their arms flattened against the white hood, too enthralled by whatever was inside to notice Dean was there.

Dean stepped in through the side door, closing it behind him.

The inside was cramped with white and yellow counters on both sides and multiple freezers. Dean blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the dimly lit space that seemed to be empty. He took another step, and his heart did a backflip in his chest — there he was, lying against the corner, with a backpack as a makeshift pillow, arms folded tight around himself, and chest steadily rising and falling. His dark hair was a mess in a way that suited him, his pink lips slightly parted, and his eyes shut to the world as he slept.

Dean found himself frozen in the middle of the van, afraid of making a sound, unsure of what to do next until his legs decided for him. He put away his gun and slowly got closer, allowing himself a smile as the guy's form became clearer.

He didn’t know something was wrong until he saw the scarlet stain; the blood soaking the Blue-eyes' green jacket stood out as a red flag inside the faded space. The stranger whimpered and curled in around himself further, making himself look smaller. Dean kneeled, trying to find his voice in the hollow of his chest. “Hey,” he managed weakly, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

Blue-eyes didn’t reply. He was breathing though, Dean double-checked. Maybe he had passed out or was too weak to acknowledge Dean's presence. Dean reached out; his forehead was warm to the touch and covered in a thin layer of sweat. Dean carefully swept a curl of soaked hair off the guy's forehead before examining further. The man’s whole body was shivering and covered in a cold sweat even though it was burning hot inside. Tentatively Dean lifted the Blue-eyes' shirt to check the source of the blood.

“Fuck…” Dean’s heart sunk to his stomach — the skin was red and swollen around deep teeth marks carved deep in the flesh. There was no mistaking it. “Fuck, no!”

The man had been bitten.


	5. Drifting Dreams

Dean shut his eyes tight and punched the wall hard enough to turn his knuckles dark-red and send a shot of pain along his entire arm. He threw another punch, a “Fuck,” on his lips, the defeating word scratching the back of his dry throat on the way out as he embraced the ache that followed.

Blue-eyes released a strained sound, breath hitching before an exhale, ragged and unsteady.

Dean blinked and focused on the man’s breathing. “Hey, do you hear me?” Dean kneeled beside him and pressed a hand to the other one’s chest, hoping for a sign that the stranger was still kicking inside. The man felt warm against Dean’s hand, his chest rising in staccato if only missing a few beats. Dean huffed a bitter laugh knowing that no matter how fiercely the other’s heart threw itself against his palm, the outcome would always be the same — the gun laying heavy on his hip glistened as a reminder of that.

Opening his eyes, Dean pulled out his gun. His fingers knew what to do, already contracting around the gun’s grip at the realization of what came next. There was no making it better; there was no ‘what ifs’, not with the already swollen teeth marks imprinted on the dark-haired’s skin. Dean was too late. Now, the only thing left to do was have the decency to provide a merciful death.

Dean gritted his teeth, weapon raised, something behind his ribs breaking as he aimed at the man he had come to call, Blue-eyes. No matter how many times he wished for the best, life always ended up replying with a major _‘fuck you’_. The guy had saved his life, and the only thing Dean could give in return was a shallow grave without even a name to put on top of the cross.

_Just another Croat._ Dean inhaled shakily and tried not to flinch when the gun clicked beneath his thumb, his other finger already on the trigger and ready to pull.

_Just another damn Croat_ , he repeated to himself.

Heavy eyelids fluttered open, blue meeting green and melting everything in its wake. Dean’s hand faltered, the finger on the trigger releasing some of its pressure as the man stared up at Dean as if he wasn’t real.

The man released a breath and covered Dean’s hand, still against his chest, with his. The gentle thud-thud beating against Dean’s palm helped to calm the rapid rhythm of his own heart as Dean held his breath, feeling slender, warm fingers wrap around his. “Is this another dream?” the hoarse, gravelly voice asked, and Dean wondered idly if the stranger had dreamed of him before.

Dean shook his head bitterly, choking on his words, “I’m as real as it gets. Though I guess that’s what a hallucination would say…” he said, voice barely a whisper as he offered an empty smile. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’ve been worse,” Blue-eyes rasped, closing his eyes again, a new, deep frown forming between his eyebrows and making the muscles of Dean’s jaw clench. Dean lowered his eyes to their linked hands. For some strange reason, neither of them had tried to break the connection yet. “That won’t be necessary,” the croaky voice cut through the silence. Dean sighed sharply; even without specifying, he knew exactly what the guy meant. Dean nodded and put the gun away for later use.

“Can I get you anything?” Dean murmured.

The man licked his lips, murmuring the request, “Water.”

Dean removed his hand from the man’s chest and took out his canteen of boiled water, removing the lid before holding it to the other’s mouth. Cerulean eyes opened to meet him again, watching Dean like a lifeline and moaning in relief when the water flowed past his cracked lips, soothing his parched mouth and throat.

Dean couldn’t help following the movement, watching plump, rosy lips pressed hard against the bottleneck, rushing to seek release from the thirst. Dean’s eyes tracked the path of the water making the man’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he gulped briskly. A streak ran down the man’s chin, and Dean reached down, thumb chasing the liquid and tracing the scruffy, sharp jawline, lingering there before Dean noticed the man wasn’t drinking anymore. “Thank you,” he muttered, cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have been stuck here for the past three days; my water ran out last night.”

Dean smiled, a genuine one. “Guess I came right in time,” he said, immediately regretting his words. His eyes darted to the bite mark poisoning any shred of optimism he might have.

_Hold the fuck up._

His thoughts screeched to a halt, and Dean leaned forward, shaking the man by the shoulder to make him open his eyes. “What do you mean three days? How— When were you bitten?”

Blue-eyes tilted his head. “Before that.”

“Were you— did a Croat bite you?”

“A Croat?” he asked, the little frown between his eyes deepening.

“One of the guys outside.” Dean pointed to the door. “You know? Zombie, living dead, whatever you wanna call them.”

The man made a silent _Oh_ with his mouth and nodded once.

“Then how… How are we still talking?”

“I…” The man slowly blinked a few times, averting Dean’s gaze through half hooded eyes and murmuring, “I'll explain… later,” before his eyes completely closed, leaving Dean behind to deal with the bombshell.

Dean stared wide-eyed, ignoring the droplets of sweat rolling down his neck, and leaned back against the counter. After a few moments of silence, the van was filled with soft snoring and even puffs of air.

Dean tipped his head back, pressing his fist to his mouth. How was that possible? The guy was clearly having a bad reaction to the bite; he was feverish, probably delusional. All the signs were there. Maybe he was lying. But what would be the point? Sooner or later, Dean would find out; it’s not like he would be able to hide it once he turned. But what if he was telling the truth? Was this guy immune? If he was, that was one hell of a big deal, one that could turn things around for every survivor fighting this relentless war with the Croats.

Dean pulled out his gun, turning it in his hands, watching the cold metallic weapon with a weary, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, the weight of it reassuring but also nerve-wracking. He clasped his fingers around the barrel; if he squeezed tight enough, he could still feel the warmth dissipating off the muzzle from the last time he had pulled the trigger.

The man made a quiet whining noise in the back of his throat, bringing Dean’s attention back to him. Despite his state and the ragged edges, he was still as beautiful as the first time they had met, the sight of him as mesmerizing as when Dean had been pulled out from the darkness to drown right into the ocean blue of the man holding him from the seven-story fall.

For a few faltering moments, Dean just sat there, watching the man slowly curl up into a ball, face buried between his knees, his high cheekbones and strong jaw scrunching for a moment before it faded into a sigh of relief.

There was a storm roaring inside Dean, a multitude of voices reasoning with him, shouting from the deepest parts of his mind. But with each portion of logic in his brain that yelled at him to use the damned gun before it was too late, everything else begged otherwise.

“Dean?” The sound of the radio broke from his waist, a stark contrast from the fragile quietude filling the van just seconds before. “Are you there?” Charlie’s voice cut through the static.

Dean gritted his teeth, tucking the gun back into the rim of his pants to pull out the radio from his belt. “Still here.”

“Then get your ass out here; we don’t have much time before they come back,” responded the grainy voice through the device.

“He’s comin’ too,” Dean replied, determination soaking up every syllable. “But… Charlie, I’m gonna need your help.”

xxx

Dean felt himself growing increasingly nervous as the washed-out stoned walls of the Keeper expanded into view from the backseat window. With Jody burying her foot on the pedal, they had made it here in under forty-eight hours. Below him, the man had gone silent, with his disheveled dark hair nestled on Dean’s legs.

“My bike,” he had murmured more than once.

“Secured in the back,” Dean would answer each time.

Dean checked his temperature before tracing the frown between the man’s brows and easing the deep line into a more peaceful slumber. Was he having a nightmare? Or maybe he was dreaming about his loved ones.

“How is he?” Charlie’s red hair appeared from behind the passenger’s seat.

“Still feverish. I think the stab is infected,” Dean said, not looking up. A fresh jab of guilt hitting him as he forced out the lie. He hadn’t told them about the bite. They wouldn’t have let Dean bring him if they knew. And now that they were almost at the fort, Dean wondered if he wasn’t just being a selfish prick, stubbornly bringing this stranger into their home and putting everyone inside in danger.

“Kevin?” he heard Charlie say through the radio. “Be ready. We’re bringing an injured one.”

From the other side, Kevin replied, though Dean couldn’t figure out what over the static.

“No, no,” Charlie assured the other side. “Stab wound. It’s a new guy. We… we don’t know his name.”

Once inside, Dean checked the stranger one last time. “You’ll be alright,” he murmured, more to himself than the man slumped across the seat. He got out of the truck, gulping hard on the wave of nervousness racing through his heart.

“Hands up!” He heard immediately.

Dean didn’t look up, rounding the vehicle, ignoring the repeat of the command in favor of opening the door on the other side of the truck.

“Dean!” Jody warned from behind.

Dean ignored her too, tucking the man into his arms and taking him out of the truck. For this to work, he needed to be fucking quick.

“Dean!” he heard from above them, along with the snap of the barrel of the rifle locking into place. “I won’t said it aga—”

“Rule number twenty-three,” Dean challenged, not stopping to make sure if Gordon had heard him. “If one has no apparent bites but is unable to stand on his own and do his own screening, they should be directed to the emergency ward to be inspected by one of the doctors.”

“W—wait.”

Dean didn’t. He couldn’t, or it would all be over. Ignoring the several guns pointed at him, he entered the last door on the right.

“Who the fuck is that?” Dean heard Gordon saying before the door closed behind him, and he crossed the hall connecting the scanning center with the emergency ward. The stranger moaned and shuffled on Dean’s arms until his cold, sweaty forehead came to rest against Dean’s neck, but other than that, he didn’t show any signs of waking up. Dean lumbered the last few steps before bursting through the door.

Kevin was already there, his hospital uniform on, gloves covering his hands, and a surprised expression that widened when he saw the fucking state Dean was in with a man that looked dead in his arms.

“Here,” Dean said out of breath, carefully settling the man on the surgical table at the center of the small room.

“Who’s this?” Kevin joined them on the other side of the table.

“I’ll explain later,” Dean blurted out. They didn’t have much time. “I need you to promise me something. You’re going to check him for bites. But whatever you find… _Whatever_ you find,” Dean repeated to Kevin’s confused expression. “I need you to clear him for me.”

“Dean, what is g—”

“There’s no time,” Dean interrupted, hearing the fast footsteps at the end of the hall. “I’ll explain everything later, but for now, when they come and ask you, you’ll give him the clearance. Okay?”

The door flew open, and Cole barged in. “If you don’t come back right away, we’ll use force. I’m not fucking kidding!”

Dean spun around to face Kevin again. “Promise!” he mouthed, the word slipping through teeth sounding too much like a plea, but Dean didn’t care.

Kevin nodded quickly, and Dean turned to Cole, putting his hands behind his neck and leaving the room. “Whatever, asshole.”

xxx

The screening took five minutes top. Usually, Dean took his time through each room, relishing in the fact that Gordon or one of the pricks from his group would be at the other end, waiting with a tapping foot.

After he was done, Dean wasted no time getting back to Kevin. As soon as he joined the young doctor in the room, Kevin was on him. “What the hell are you thinking?” Kevin barked. “He’s been bitten. Are you aware of that?”

Dean nodded sharply.

“Then explain to me why I just looked Gordon in the eye and confirmed everything’s fine with this guy?” he asked, motioning with his hand to the single bed on the far end of the pastel-yellow room.

“He’s immune,” Dean justified.

“Immune?” Kevin stopped in his tracks. “H—how?”

“He was bitten at least five days ago.”

“And how would you know that?”

“He told me.”

Kevin tsk’ed, half-amused, half-bewildered with the information. “And you believed him… why?”

“When I found him, he was so out of it, he almost couldn’t form a coherent sentence, much less make up even a half-ass convincing lie.”

Kevin stared at Dean for a few uncomfortable beats, probably deciding if Dean had gone insane. “You shouldn’t have brought him here,” he stated finally. “You’re putting the whole group at risk.”

“But what if I’m right? What if he’s immune? Don’t you wanna find out more about this guy? Maybe he’s the key to everything.”

“Everything?” Kevin let out a deep, slow sigh and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I didn’t take you for the _believe-in-the-savior-of-humanity_ type.”

“Not humanity.” Dean shook his head. “But the virus, yes. Maybe…”

Kevin scoffed and looked away, directing his attention to the bloodied gauze pads lying on top of the metallic table. “Go to sleep, Dean. Maybe tomorrow, your dreams will come true.”

Dean left wordlessly, closing the door behind him to lean back on its wooden surface. He didn’t blame Kevin for the scorn spilling from his mouth, this disease had taken too much from every single one of them, and Kevin had never been the same since his mother’s death. After a blow like that, it was hard to hope for something better, and that maybe sometimes, if you believe hard enough, dreams can come true.

Dean usually left that type of thing for Sammy; he didn’t have any dreams left in him.

But now… Dean couldn’t help the small flutter of hope quivering inside of him. He released a shaky breath and walked away from the door to follow the doctor’s advice. He needed his four hours.

xxx

Dean woke up early that morning. He yawned, a smile playing at his lips even before he opened his eyes and stretched, letting the covers fall to the bottom of the bed.

Today was going to be a good one, he decided. The day was particularly sunny, with the light sneaking through the curtains of the window he had left cracked open the night before. He sat up, his feet dangling from the edge of the bed as he watched the breeze drifting in, a wisp of dust dancing and twirling against the sunlight, before greeting the tip of his toes with a gentle touch.

Dean got up, feet making clomping noises on the hardwood flooring as he strode toward the window and opened it in full, welcoming the chirp of birds outside. He had the day off from patrol, and even though he had inventory to finish, that could wait until after lunch. Truth be told, there was no good reason for him to get his ass out of bed so early.

_There’s one,_ a little cheeky voice in the back of his mind whispered.

Dean grabbed a change of clothes — some worn-out jeans and a blue plaid shirt — and headed out still in his pajamas. Despite Dean having a bathroom in his room, the only place with hot water was the shared bathroom on the main floor, and he needed one hell of a good, hot shower today.

There was no one in the bath, and Dean was grateful for the silence and the time alone.

They were transferring Blue-eyes to the infirmary this morning. After four days in the emergency ward, Missouri had given him the official stamp of infection-free approval and the permission to move him to the infirmary.

Dean had no clue how Kevin had managed to fool Missouri since she was basically a damned dinosaur when it came to doctoring. But he had done it, and Dean owed him a freaking pie for the achievement.

Dean had last seen Blue-eyes the night before. He had left with a strange emotion tugging at his heart and a _kindly-fuck-off_ wave of hands from the younger doctor. Dean had offered to give a hand in the moving, but Kevin was adamant that both he and Missouri be in charge of the moving themselves. Dean had bitten the inside of his cheek, a witty comeback ready on his tongue, but he let it slide when he noticed the dark circles under Kevin’s eyes. He wasn’t the only one staying after hours to watch over the newcomer. Kevin had been there as well, making sure their secret stayed that way.

The fact that the guy hadn’t turned yet to bite them both in the asses had been enough proof that Dean was right, and a welcome incentive for Kevin to tag along with the plan one hundred percent. He hadn’t woken up yet, but was well on his way to recovery — his harsh shivers giving way to a comfortable slumber; his labored breath and pained moans had weakened to quiet gasps, his bursts of sweat further apart and easier to control. Dean had taken that task upon himself; wetting a cloth in tepid water and running it along the stranger’s body was simple enough. And if his heart happened to skip a beat every once in a while, Dean did his best to silence it. This wasn’t the place or the time to be flustered over the guy’s body.

On the second night, the fever had broken, but despite the good news, he still hadn’t come to. “Why won’t he wake up?” Dean had asked. And Kevin had snapped with a, “For the hundredth time, _I don’t know_.” Along with a _Leave me be_ glare.

The only thing left for Dean to do was wait by the guy’s bedside. Whenever Dean wasn’t needed for inventory or doing his patrols, he was there, by his side. He started reading his father’s journal to pass the time. When either Kevin or Missouri was close by, he mostly kept it to himself, but whenever they were alone, he read it out loud — the journal was one of the few things they had left of his father. John used to scribble in it all the time. My future novel, he used to joke — the story of a family of hunters, a father, and his two sons; together, they slew monsters and saved the world time and time again. Dean read his father’s tale often and never got tired of it. He had never shown it to anyone else but Sam, though. Guess it was easier to share it with someone else when said someone was asleep, probably not hearing a thing.

Sometimes Blue-eyes stirred, and Dean would pause, breath stuck in his throat, hoping this would be the time he would finally wake up and open his bright-blue eyes. But nothing changed. Other times he would let out a low cry, fingers knuckle-white grasping the covers, choking on tearless sobs until Dean sat beside him on the bed, hands covering his, gently drying the fresh streaks of sweat running along his hairline and hushing his fears away. Dean sometimes wondered what memories plagued his mind. Everyone had plenty of those to count by, and this guy was probably no different. And he had no one. What happened to his family? Had he lost all his loved ones? Was he dreaming about them right now?

Dean opened his eyes to the rusty shower head above him, forcing himself out of his thoughts. This was the first time since he came back that he got to indulge in a warm, relaxing shower. He took his time, allowing himself for once not to feel guilty for using the water a little too long. He washed his body thoroughly, every scar, every callus, slowly filling the air around him with the scent of the homemade lemon soap, feeling the hot, thick streaks of water race down his back and break into a million particles against the blue and gray tile.

Once he was done, he got dressed, scratching his rumbling stomach but otherwise ignoring it. As much as he was hungry, he was heading the other direction. He left the main building, greeting the few sleepy faces he met on his way to the infirmary next to the scanning center.

“Hey, Kevin.” Dean stopped by the door, leaning against the frame, watching the younger man already dressed in his typical white medical robe, immersed in the mess of papers spread across his desk.

“He still hasn’t woken up,” Kevin said, not bothering to take his eyes from what he was reading.

“Yeah, good morning to you too.”

Kevin scribbled something down and reached for the mug next to him, his face disappearing behind the bottom of the cup and the white steam as he gulped down the last of his coffee. “Gordon was here,” he finally looked at Dean, “again.”

Dean groaned, crossing his arms. “What did he want?”

“He wanted to make sure that your friend over there was still unconscious,” he said, pointing with his head to the bed on the far side of the room. “And he wanted to confiscate his weapons.”

“You mean steal,” Dean groused.

Kevin shrugged. “He says it’s against the rules. Your rules,” he added before Dean could protest any further.

_Dammit._ Dean scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just doesn’t feel right taking his stuff when he’s still out of it.”

“Yeah,” Kevin said, his eyebrows rising. “That’s the point.” He got up, filing the papers in the white wooden cabinet behind him. “After what happened, he wants to prove himself. Like the alpha male or some crap like that.” He turned to Dean, mouth twitching before he spoke again. “And you’re in the way. You and,” he pointed to the end of the room again. “The sleeping beauty.”

Sighing, Dean buried both hands in his pockets. He didn’t want it to come down to this, but he would kick Gordon’s ass if he had to. Dean had no interest in affirming himself as the leader, nor did he want the position like Gordon was so eager to claim for himself. But the reality was, like it or not, people had come to look up to him for advice or to make the hard decisions necessary for the greater good of the community. And Dean had accepted that, not because he liked it, but because he felt responsible for everyone living here. After all, Bobby, Sammy, and himself had founded and built this place. And even though the new guy was nothing but a stranger to Dean, he somehow felt responsible for him too. Not only that, he wanted, needed, to know more about him. How in the fucking world was he able to stop Dean’s outburst. Would he be able to tell Dean what the hell was wrong with him? Could he fix him? Besides that, was he immune and possibly the key to stop the virus?

“I’ll talk to Gordon,” Dean said out loud.

Later.

For now, he pulled away from the door and walked down the room. Some of the tension in his body evaporated when he saw the mess of dark hair and stubbled cheeks steadily turning pink from the sun illuminating the room, looking healthier with each day that passed.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” the words fell from his lips before he could help himself. He looked down and smiled sheepish, even though the man couldn’t even hear him. “You can’t blame me,” he continued, drawing near to sit by the edge of the bed. “It’s not like I can call you anything else if you won’t even tell me your name. At least be grateful I’m not calling you sleeping beauty like some of the guys.” He chuckled, crossing one leg under the other so he could turn to the man, who gave no signs of hearing him or noticing Dean’s presence at all. Dean sighed. “Tough crowd, huh? Don’t like my jokes? You should complain to the doc.” He pointed with his thumb to Kevin, who had gone back to studying his papers. “Hey, wanna hear the good news? Kevin says you’re recovering fast. Your body just needs time to regain its strength. But you’ll be on your feet in no time. I promise.” He smiled, watching the man’s chest rise and fall, oblivious to the world as the air slipped away from half-parted lips in a slow, continuous loop that matched the drops of serum falling down the IV connected to the back of the man’s hand.

Dean contemplated the undisturbed image in front of him for a few drawn-out beats before mustering the courage to reach out, fingertips hovering over the man’s hand and lingering there, too afraid to break the peace, like a ripple in the water. “If only you could give me a sign. Just one.” Dean didn’t know why it mattered so much. How could someone he barely knew have such a hold on the balance of his mood? They had barely exchanged two words. So what? The guy had saved his life. Dean had saved his. The debt was paid.

And yet…

Dean closed the few remaining inches, fingertips against skin, moving down the index, trailing the bumps of each knuckle. “Just wake up. I’ll be waiting.”

With one last smile, Dean left.

xxx

“Hey, handsome.” Charlie bumped against his shoulder, snatching a blue tray for herself before joining Dean in the line for breakfast. At that time of the day, the dining hall was loud, the chatter increasing as people gradually entered to have breakfast. The left light-amber wall was mostly taken by a long, metallic counter where primarily sandwiches, fruit, and beverage was served. The rest of the expansive space was occupied with people, round tables, and wooden chairs along the mint-colored tiled floor.

“Hey, yourself,” Dean replied.

“So, guess who’s been asking about you?” she said from behind.

“Hmm?”

“Lisa!” Charlie leaned forward, chin perched on his shoulder. “She said she hadn’t seen you since we came back.”

“Someone has to do the inventory,” he grumbled.

“And someone has to watch over the handsome guy napping in the infirmary.”

“That’s… not it.”

She chuckled. “Right.”

“What’s taking so long?” He got on his tiptoes to see the source of the delay. A tall man with broad shoulders and brown hair was arguing with a wide-eyed and much ready to get out of dodge Becky. Dean narrowed his eyes, he couldn’t understand what the man was saying, but if the way Becky flinched every two seconds was anything to go by, the exchange wasn’t exactly pleasant.

Dean advanced in the line and could hear Charlie shaking her head when she restarted their conversation, “You should give Lisa a chance.”

“We’ve had our time,” Dean replied, not looking at her, half of his attention being drawn to the discussion ahead of them. “It was good. But it’s over.” He was next in line, and before Charlie could press on, he greeted Becky. She mumbled something back, but her voice was so low, Dean could only guess she had greeted him in return.

“So, as you can see, it’s not ethically acceptable to give us only two portions,” the man, no, Jefferson, Dean recognized now, continued his argument with Becky as if Dean was invisible.

“What’s going on?” Dean butt in.

“I was explaining to Jefferson that I’ve been ordered to serve one portion of food per person, I—”

“And I was explaining,” Jefferson interrupted, turning to Dean. “That since my wife is pregnant, she should get more food.”

“Those are the orders I have,” Becky shrieked, looking as if she might start crying at any second.

“Okay, okay, let’s all calm down,” Dean placed his hand on Jefferson’s shoulder. “I understand your point. I can’t decide anything on my own, but I’ll bring this issue to the next group assembly, and I promise to defend your case.” Dean looked down at Jefferson’s tray with exactly the portion decided — a sandwich, an apple, and a cup of a drink of his choice. “For now, though, this is all we can give. We need to ration for a bit longer so the food won’t run out.”

Jefferson glared at him for a while before spinning on his heels and leaving without another word.

Dean turned to Becky, who had half her face hidden behind her hair. “Hey,” he called out to make her look up. “I promise this won’t last long.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Our next run will be better, I know it.”

“Okay.” She sniffed once but replied with a broad smile. “So, what can I get you today?”

“Surprise me.” They both laughed before she handed him the exact same portion she had given Jefferson. “With coffee, please.” He gave Charlie a quick glance. “Make it extra strong.”

They took one of the free tables on the far right corner in silence. Dean took a sip of his coffee and closed his eyes, already feeling the beginning of a headache kicking in. “You know?” Charlie spoke after a while. “I hate agreeing with Gordon, but he’s right. Maybe we need to go to Agora.”

Dean glowered at his sandwich, meticulously cut in two. He grabbed one of the halves and took a bite. “I know,” he conceded.

Charlie nodded and brought her mug to her lips.

“I hate that place,” Dean admitted, crossing his arms and leaning back on his chair.

She nodded again, slowly gulping her coffee before confessing, “Me too.” Dean got up abruptly, almost knocking down his chair. “Where are you going?” she asked when he started leaving.

“Need to finish inventory,” he informed, not looking back, making a beeline to Jefferson and Kelly on his way out. “Hey.” He paused next to their table, shuffling from one foot to the other. Kelly smiled softly in reply; Jefferson seemed too occupied with his apple to acknowledge Dean was there. “Here,” he placed his tray with his apple and the half of his sandwich he hadn’t touched in front of her. Both looked up with a dumbstruck expression on their faces.

“N—no, I couldn’t,” Kelly started, but Dean interrupted her.

“I’m not hungry anyway.” He shrugged. “So, the little one can take it,” he added, watching her belly that got bigger every day that passed. “How long until I can meet him or her?”

Kelly touched her belly, and her smile widened when she gazed down. “Two months.”

“Just in time to celebrate the harvest with us.”

“Yes!”

Dean nodded. “Things will get better, promise.” His eyes darted between the two, and he boosted his words with one last assent of his head before turning to leave.

xxx

The rest of the day passed in a blur, and before Dean realized it, the sky was turning dusk, with soft, pastel colors painting the day in lavenders and pinks. Dean stretched his back until it popped, cleaning the sweat on the back of his neck with one of the rags laying around.

“Okay, that was the last box.” Rufus came to a halt by his side, contemplating the storage house with the same proud smile Dean felt plastered all over his face. Several columns of boxes stood against the walls, organized by type and necessity.

“Good job,” he patted the older man’s shoulder before announcing to the rest of the group, “It’s getting late; you’ve all earned some rest. So, beat it, everyone.” He shooed them away, feeling damn satisfied with their hard day’s work.

“You should get some rest too,” Claire muttered while passing by him, “You’re not exactly getting younger, ya know?”

“Mua-ha,” he deadpanned, pretending he was about to kick her ass. “Get lost, you brat.”

She threw a goodbye wave over her shoulder.

Dean settled the papers where he had written all the items they had packed, up next to the table by the wide metal door, and headed out, pulling the heavy sliding door closed. He looked at the sky again, whistling while trotting down along the gravel.

He paused in front of the next storage house where they kept the food, and checked to see that there was no one else inside, and closed that door as well.

When he got to the third and last storage house, the workshop, he wasn’t surprised to see Bobby there. If one person dedicated more of his time to the storage than him, that person was Bobby. He spent most of his time there, entertaining his hobby and passion, surrounded by both weapons and cars in need of fixing.

“Hey!” Dean shouted, laughing when he heard the older man hit his head on the bottom of the truck.

“Y’idjit. Don’t y’know how to knock?” He scrambled along the dirt, and soon after, Dean was face to face with the grumpy, old man he had learned to love like a father. Bobby cleaned his face with a rag, managing to smudge his oil-stained face even further. “D’you have any idea of how much of a mess you left the truck in on your last run?” He pointed a wrinkled finger at Dean. “You’re lucky ‘m around.”

Dean laughed, leaning against the truck.

“Not to mention the lack of blood on the inside,” Bobby added, glancing at Dean through narrowed eyes. _Shit._ And just like that, Dean stopped smiling. “What the hell happened? ‘Cause there sure wasn’t enough blood for a knife wound.”

Dean pushed himself away from the vehicle, turning his attention to the beauty in the back, his black 1967 Chevrolet Impala. The sunset glistened off of her perfectly lustrous surface, putting every other car in there to shame. “Hey, you,” he said softly, sliding his hand along the roof of his baby.

“But you keep sayin’ he was attacked,” Bobby continued, completely unaware of the small reunion that had happened in the background. “So what was it?” he gazed at Dean, his eyes boring into Dean’s until he had to look away. “Or should I ask _who_ was it?” he finished.

_Damn Bobby for being so quick-witted._

“I…” Dean swallowed audibly.

Thankfully, before he could answer, Bela dashed inside, stumbling forward as she spotted Dean, hands coming to rest on her knees. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” she said, taking a lungful of air before being able to speak again. “It’s him. The new guy,” she added immediately after seeing Dean’s confusion. “He’s awake. And Gordon is gonna kill him.”


	6. Four Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone so much for every subscription, kudos, hit and especially each comment. Knowing what you think of this fic means the world to me and all your feedback is important. I'm very happy people are enjoying this.

Why did Dean’s luck always run like this? He’d spent all the free seconds of his days by Blue-eyes’ side just to have him open his _goddamn-beautiful_ ocean eyes to the world while Dean was gone. And of friggin’ course, it had to be the hair-trigger tempered Gordon the first one to welcome him back.

Nonetheless, Dean was thrilled with the development, and he couldn’t wait to speak with Blue-eyes, maybe finally put a name to the guy who had saved his ass. But as he ran like a mad man inside, about to go all _The Shining_ on Gordon’s ass, Dean wondered if his half-baked strategy of essentially smuggling a stranger inside with one foot in the grave and a bite mark practically flashing on his torso was about to go belly up.

According to Bela, Gordon had decided he had had enough, bursting inside the infirmary along with his two gorillas determined to take the guy’s weapons with him.

And as Dean stormed in, either ready to face the music or beat them all to a bloody pulp, a deep, enraged wail pierced through his ears. There were four silhouettes outlined against the long, white curtain separating the last bed from the rest of the room. Missouri was a few steps to the side, with Charlie close by, her lulling voice standing out over the hostile words coming from behind the curtain.

“Please, put that away now; there’s no need for that,” Missouri said in the few moments it took Dean to rush the final steps to the bed, hands clenched into fists reaching for the curtain ready to stop Gordon and—

Dean’s thought process was brought to a screeching halt — Cole toppled forward, only to tumble backward onto the ground. A rush of blood poured from his nose as he writhed in pain, his brown, spiky hair clung to the sweat covering his forehead, as he looked up, eyes wide and full of scorn. “You crazy fuck.”

Gordon stood in the middle, back turned to Dean, frozen, the muscles along his back rigid. The shimmer of a large drop of sweat rolled down the nape of his hair and along the glint of a blade pressed against skin that came into view when he turned his head slightly to the side. Blue-eyes stood defiantly in front of him, machete at hand, its sharp, steel edge pressed to the side of Gordon’s neck.

“Take it easy, mate,” the tallest and most built of the three, Victor, spoke up. “We’re just following protocol.” He threw his hands in the air, taking a step back when the man increased the pressure on the machete in response, blade dangerously close to cutting the skin, eliciting a screechy whimper from Gordon.

“Who are you? What is this place?” Blue-eyes growled, his eyes flashed with danger.

“You broke my nose,” Cole sobbed pathetically on the floor.

“Hey,” Dean ignored Cole, eyes trained on the familiar stranger, doing his best not to let his breath hitch when cerulean eyes met him halfway and locked together. He took a cautious step forward, afraid to agitate the ocean in the other’s gaze brimming with confusion but unwavering. “I don’t know if you remember me.”

“Dean,” came the quick reply, voice deep and husky.

Dean nodded quickly, swallowing the warm feeling nestling behind his ribcage. “Y—you…” He cleared his throat, cursing his traitorous voice before giving another try. “You had been attacked when I found you. Remember?” he said, hoping the other’s mind was clear enough for him not to reveal exactly what _said attack_ was. “So I brought you here. Remember I told you about my group? Well,” he gave half a smile, ashamed that these three morons had to be the welcome party of a group that Dean was otherwise proud of, “here we are.”

“Where am I?” Blue-eyes insisted, voice strained, and eyes pulling away to glance around the room.

“This is our infirmary.” Dean drew near, hand finding its way to the blade and resting there when the other’s gaze was drawn back to him. “You’ve been too weak to move you anywhere else.”

“We’ve been taking turns to watch over you,” came Missouri’s honey voice from behind. “And you’ve been doing very well,” she added with an honest smile.

The stranger gave a faint nod, some of the tension in the muscles of his jaw fading, and a few of the lines in his face easing away. “Thank you,” he mumbled and relaxed his arm, letting the blade move downward along Gordon’s neck before falling completely to rest by his side.

“Okay!” Dean released a lungful of air. “Now that that’s out of the way, maybe,” he turned to Gordon and his men, “you, leave,” Dean rasped, giving them a silent, _Get the fuck out of here_ for good measure.

Victor moved to help Cole up, but Gordon stood stubbornly still, eyes narrowing in anger. “I want a group meeting.” He held up a finger. “Tonight!”

“Whatever, Gordon,” Dean snapped. “Just get the hell out.”

“You’re gonna regret this,” Cole grunted over his shoulder as the three left.

“I’m grateful for your hospitality,” Blue-eyes spoke after the men were out of sight. “But now, if you’ll excuse me, I would like to leave.” He turned, legs faltering beneath him as he took three frail steps to his bed, hand clenching into a fist around the hilt of the machete and turning white from the small action. He sat down, placing his weapon beside him and lifting his shirt to inspect the wound.

“It’s almost healed,” Missouri said, nodding to the bandage — most of the damaged tissue had healed, giving way to pink, tender-looking skin and the faintest of a scar. The dressing was mostly just to hide the evidence of the bite. “That got you pretty bad. But… you’re still you,” she said tentatively, sending a quick glance to Charlie, not giving words to the friggin’ elephant in the room, but making Dean’s head snap at her all the same. _So maybe she hadn’t been fooled after all._

The guy nodded grimly, pointedly avoiding their gaze. “I should go,” he announced quietly, reaching for the bag lying next to the bed.

“You’re in no condition to leave.” Missouri stepped closer, her voice as gentle as the hand resting on his shoulder. “Please, my child, you don’t need to be frightened. No one will harm you here.”

“I appreciate the thought,” Blue-eyes said, tying his machete and the crossbow to the leather straps of his bag. “But I’m not afraid of those men if that’s your meaning.” He took a simple gray t-shirt and a navy green jacket out of the bag, followed by a pair of blue boxers and jeans.

“You can’t go like this.” Dean neared the bed, speaking for the first time since Gordon had left, hands in his back pockets. For a moment, there was something so vulnerable in the way the blue-eyed man looked up that it made Dean avert his eyes. “Like the doc said, you’re too weak to be on your own. Just let…” _us_ “them take care of you…” he finished, gaze fixed on the floor, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Am I a prisoner?” the man said, voice two degrees colder. Dean looked up at that, the wariness overflowing in the man’s eyes, surprising him more than his words.

“W—what?” Dean stuttered in disbelief, something close to hurt clenching around his stomach and scratching the back of his throat on its way out. “Of course not!” He stepped forward. “Listen, man, you were pretty much out of it when I found you, so it’s not exactly like I could have your consent for anything, but I couldn’t leave you there to die,” he earnestly replied, feeling the muscles along his neck strain.

“Why?” The man stared back, his expression flashing with something Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on before he covered it up.

“W—why?” Dean’s voice caught in his throat again, a little taken back by the guy’s callous and disregarding approach to the matter. Dean shook his head and huffed. “Listen, I—”

“Just stay for a few more days, dude,” Charlie chimed in from where she was leaning against one of the counters. “At least ‘til you can walk without looking like you’re about to break apart like a porcelain doll.”

“Very well,” the man agreed suddenly. He got up, swaying precariously before giving them a tight smile. “Can you just…” He clutched the clothes to his chest, smile turning sheepish, “Can you give me some privacy?”

Dean nodded slowly and turned, something not sitting right in that change of heart. He walked away despite the blaring alarms ringing furiously in the back of his head, barely hearing the two women speaking beside him. He was halfway across the infirmary when a rush of wind forced its way through the room. Dean’s mind kicked in again, causing his legs to run back before the other two even had the chance to turn around.

As soon as the three rounded the pulled shut curtain, it became painfully obvious they had just been played. Dean ran to the open window, and there he was outside, dark hair still a mess, but steps quick and resolute despite the obvious fragility as Blue-eyes put as much distance as possible between him and the infirmary.

“Hey!” Dean shouted, voice raw with desperation, feeling pretty much like he had just been slapped in the face as he jumped out the window without a second thought, the crisp nightfall meeting his face with a cold gust of air.

The man had reached the fort’s outer wall by the time Dean got to him; he was about to climb the stairs leading to the north watchtower when Dean grabbed his arm and stopped him, forcing him to face him.

“Kinda rude to leave without saying goodbye,” he tried aiming for nonchalance despite how dejected he felt inside.

“What do you want from me?!” the man snapped, jerking his arm free. “I told you before; I can’t fix whatever you have.” The words so filled with mistrust they took all the air out of Dean’s lungs.

Dean huffed, emitting a mirthless laugh, anger filling his heart but evaporating just as quickly when Dean took a closer look. Blue-eyes looked like a wounded animal pushed into a corner, pale as a ghost, and frantically shaking as he stepped back. He was surprised that the man was still standing, as Dean’s emotions hastily morphed to sorrow and compassion. The guy released a throat-cutting cough before tugging his jacket closer to him.

“You think I brought you here so you can cure me or some crap like that?! Is it so hard to believe we’re just trying to help you?” Dean asked when the coughing had died to a low, rumbling gasp.

The man looked away, hugging himself against the relentless wind, looking much smaller all of a sudden.

“What about your bike? Are you leaving it behind _too_?” Dean paused, his voice sounding much frailer than what he intended.

“I warned you the first day we met, I’m better off on my own,” the man stated quietly, ignoring Dean’s question.

“So groups aren’t your thing. Screw that! Right now you need—”

“I don’t need saving, Dean.”

Dean heaved a deep sigh and looked down, hoping he successfully hid the strange hurt twisting his voice. “’m not doubting you’re a badass, but everyone needs a bit of help every once in a while. Besides, you saved _me,_ so…” Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Call me old-fashioned, but I felt like I owed you one.” He swallowed thickly and threw caution to the wind. “You don’t like it? Tough shit, I ain’t leaving you on your own.”

A whisper of white cloud fell from the man’s lips, the lines around his eyes softening, the change so delicate Dean almost missed it.

Dean scuffed at a patch of grass, a hesitant smile pulling at his lips when he looked up. “I guess, thank you, is what I’ve been trying to say.”

The man’s mouth gave the smallest curl up, but before it could meet his eyes, the man stepped backward and stumbled, his eyes rolling back until the blue in them disappeared, and he collapsed.

Dean was on him before his mind could catch up with his body, feeling his chest hollow for a second as he found himself on his knees, the blue-eyed man cradled in his arms to keep him from falling to the ground — an opposite mirror from when they first met. Except for this time, there wasn’t an ocean looking back at him, and just when Dean’s thoughts kicked back in again, something else puffed in his chest. He didn’t know what to call it, but somewhere in the middle, he found his voice again, just enough to push it through the chill of the wind’s blow. “Charlie!” he yelled. “Someone!” he shouted, too desperate to do anything else. “Please, help!”

Before he knew it, Charlie was at his side, with Missouri close behind, and soon a whole group of people Dean hadn’t time to single out was around them. He held the guy to his chest, the dark hair soft between his fingers, when Dean held the blue-eyed man’s head against his shoulder and picked him up.

Dean led the way back inside, one arm clasped around the man’s back, the other beneath his legs, feeling the ever so delicate breaths grazing his neck and trailing his spine with a warm chill.

He didn’t stop at the infirmary, instructing Charlie to bring the man’s bag upstairs, ignoring everyone’s eyes widening with confusion as they entered the main building of the fort and climbed up the stairs, crossing the hallway into Dean’s room, before tucking the man inside his bed.

“Dean?” Charlie said at last when the bedroom’s door was closed behind her. She didn’t need to finish; everyone’s confusion was mirrored in her voice.

“He’s stayin’ here from now on,” Dean said simply. “I won’t have him get hurt again.”

xxx

Dean paused, hesitantly watching the door of the assembly hall, hand stilled halfway to the doorknob. The others should all be inside by now, and for once, Dean wished he could turn around, get Baby on his way out and leave all this bullshit behind.

Gordon’s cold stare was the first thing welcoming him inside. Dean gritted his teeth and pointedly ignored him in favor of joining his brother’s side, who sat at one of the old, wooden tables.

“Should I go straight to the point?” Victor was the first one to speak after everyone had taken their seat. He got up when no one opposed him. “There are rules here. And one of them is we reunite before accepting anyone new, right?”

“Exactly,” Cole replied, his nasal voice spilling the same hate Dean saw in the other two’s eyes. The nosebleed had improved, but the gauze patching up his nose was already soaked through with blood, and the red swelling around his eyes stood out against his semi-pale complexion. Cole turned his cold gaze at him, and Dean tried his damned hardest not to think about what he would give to have a different kind of blue staring back at him. There was something about the guy, something Dean couldn’t explain. It was like he had known him all his life, like there was a connection between them. Absently, Dean held his necklace’s stone in his palm, closing his fingers tightly around its cold surface.

“We set up rules for a reason, Dean,” Victor continued, pulling Dean’s attention back to him. “And if we want to survive and work as a community, we need to follow them.”

“I know that. But the thing is—”

“Do you want a repetition of last time?” Cole asked, voice filled with disdain as his eyes quickly met Sam’s before returning to Dean.

Sam flinched in his seat, knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the table. Ruby. To this day, that was a name both Sam and he had silently agreed not to mention ever again. Just thinking about it left a sour taste in the back of Dean’s mouth. Sam had met Ruby some years back and had fallen head over heels for the damned brunette. Despite the fact that the three other men found with her had tried to kill Sam and the rest of the group doing the supply run at the time, Sam had believed she was innocent. He had been wrong.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, trying to measure his next words. “You know what you can do with that question?” he asked in a carefully controlled tone. “You can shove it up your—”

“Dean!” Sam called, hand on his shoulder and a sharp jerk of the head.

“You know nothing about the guy,” Gordon glared at the circle of people sitting in silence as if defending a case in front of a court. “He could be part of a group already. What if they come after him?”

“Well, for starters, while you were busy with your thumb up your ass and getting people killed, this guy actually saved my life!” Dean snapped. “Last supply run, we were attacked.” He blurted the half-truth. “The guy went out of his way to save my ass.” He hooked his foot around the table leg, hands flat against his thighs, grasping at straws to find a reason not to knock the teeth out of Gordon’s skull.

Dean could see it in the glances being thrown his way; the mention of Ruby had poisoned the room with doubts and fear of a replay of what had almost been the community’s downfall. Dean heaved a breath. “I just think he has earned his chance to prove he can join us. I owe him that much.”

Cole scoffed, arms crossing on his chest as he took a step forward. “We can’t keep accepting every stray we find. Things are difficult as it is. Soon enough, we will run out of supplies to feed every mouth you keep bringing,” he sneered, looming closer.

“I thought you said we should recruit.”

“Fresh blood, not fuck ups.”

Dean stood up. “Then maybe I should walk your ass outta the door,” Dean said calmly, staring him down.

“Maybe I’ll kick you out first,” Cole warned, eyes narrowing in irritation.

“You can try,” Dean said defiantly; with his larger stature, it was hard for him to take Cole's threats seriously.

“Dean,” came Sammy’s voice as appeasing fingers wrapped around his shoulder. Dean could feel Victor and Gordon’s dark eyes in the back of his head. There was no use in trying to change their minds. But Dean would only make their life easier if he let his emotions get the best of him. The rest of the group still had the final say; he just had to step back and trust they would make the right decision.

Dean walked away with a sigh, taking a seat in one of the chairs closer to the window. He held his breath, watching as the others took a vote. It didn’t take long to see which side was about to win, and Dean all but jumped off his chair when the blue-eyed sleepyhead occupying his bed was allowed to stay.

Once outside, Sam grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the side. “What do you mean he saved your ass? I didn’t know it had come to that.”

“Only a few bumps and bruises.” He tried for casual.

“Enough to make you think you owe him your life… And carry him to your room in a bridal style.”

“Shut your piehole!” Dean felt his cheeks heating up. “I— I did not!”

“You did too!”

“I didn’t.”

“You did!”

“I didn’t times infinite!” Dean babbled at a loss of something better to say.

Sam laughed. “Seriously though…” he trailed off, pursing his lips together.

“What?”

“There’s something more to it, isn’t it?”

“Look, I…” Dean dug his hands in his pockets, looking around to make sure they were alone. “I almost went nuke on Charlie and Bela, okay? Almost burned the whole damn place down.”

“You what?!” Sam yelled.

Dean recoiled. “Keep it down, will ya?”

“What happened?”

“I lost control for a sec.”

“What about the necklace?”

“A damn Croat managed to put their filthy hands on it. He snapped it from my neck.”

“Shit!”

“But this guy stopped me from burning everything down.”

“Say what?”

“He… I don’t know. He touched me, and it was over. I… I found control again, and the flames stopped.”

“H—how is that possible?” Sam asked, massaging his chin in thought.

“Don’t know…” Dean shrugged. “That’s what I need to find out.”

xxx

Dean was practically running when he got to his bedroom and the snoring guest taking up his bed.

“Hey,” Dean whispered to Kevin, who was intently eyeing the books lying on Dean’s desk.

“Hi,” the young man turned to him with a long, tired yawn, quickly wiping the tears seeping from the corners of his eyes with the sleeves of his grey hooded sweatshirt before scrambling to his feet. “How did it go?”

Dean gave him a heartfelt smile. “He’s in!”

“Good,” Kevin replied around another yawn, the dimly lit room cast new shadows under his eyes as he took a glance at the bed before looking at Dean again. “You’d be insufferable for weeks if they had refused,” he added, wryly amused. He turned and started closing and piling all the books he had been reading.

“What’s all that?”

“Something for your brother.”

Dean released a sharp breath through his nose. “He’s still messing around with that damn book?”

Kevin nodded curtly. “We found a bunch of books about dead languages in one of our latest runs. And I offered to help Sam take a look at them. We’re hoping these will help us translate the rest of the book.”

Dean huffed and rolled his eyes but didn’t reply. He wasn’t gonna waste any more energy arguing with Sam about this. When they had managed to kick Ruby out, she had left the book behind amid her hurry to escape. According to her, it revealed the cure for this disease that had wiped seventy percent of the population off the map, creating zombies in its wake. Problem was, they had come to a dead end. From what Sam had translated so far, it described the apocalypse. Not only that but from one of the paintings in the book — which looked eerily similar to the stone from Dean’s necklace — Sam felt certain it referred to Dean’s condition as well. To this day, three years later, they were no closer to cracking the whole thing.

Blue-eyes heaved out a faint sigh and turned to the other side.

“How is he?” Dean murmured.

“He hasn’t woken up since you brought him here.” Kevin scratched his chest right above the logo that said _American Ninja Warrior._ “But he’s stable. I think he just needs time to recover. He’ll be alright.” He gave Dean an encouraging smile and turned to pack his books against his chest.

“Need help carrying them?”

Kevin shook his head, chin pressed flat against the top book, holding the pile with tenuous strength. “Goodnight,” he said quietly over his shoulder while Dean held the door open for him.

“G’night,” Dean replied, closing the door behind him and turning to lean against the wooden surface.

He watched the man who had gone back to a heavy sleep; the white and yellow striped pajamas looked way too big for him. He was turned away from Dean, his neck half-buried in Dean’s clothes, with only the tips of his fingers sticking out from the sleeves; it was like watching a child sleep peacefully.

Dean smiled and looked away. The night had come with a merge of black and blue behind the closed blinds, a sliver of moonlight sneaking through the slits to caress the man’s back and cast a shimmer of silver along his frame.

Dean went to the bathroom and changed into a gray tank top and a pair of loose, black sleep pants, sighing with contentment when the cotton fabric fell around his legs. He was halfway through brushing his teeth when he heard a deep, drowsy groan coming from the room.

“Hey,” Dean announced his presence, his voice hushed as he drew near the bed until the mess of dark hair, heavy eyelids, and swollen, red lips came into view. Cerulean eyes were like liquid water soaking him to the bone. They locked in on Dean’s for one stilled moment before realization played across the man’s face. His wide eyes took in their surroundings before focusing on Dean again.

“Where am I?” came the groggy voice, made deeper by disuse.

“In my bedroom,” Dean said, filling the glass of water on the bedside table. “But don’t worry, it’s only temporary until we can find you— Hey! what’re you doin’?”

The man wasn’t paying attention anymore; with a groan and a pain-stained face, he forced his body up, muscles visibly contracting and throbbing as he sat up and pulled the cover to the side.

Dean put down the glass, hands hesitating and hovering on both sides of the man’s arms, surprised the man even managed to stand up, legs shaking from the effort, one hand supporting his weight against the bedside table and the other touching the bandage on his torso. “What happened?” he asked in a tight voice, licking his chapped lips.

“You passed out on me,” he replied as the man faltered, looking alarmingly close to falling down. Dean instinctively reached out and gripped his upper arms. “Just when I was trying to thank you for saving my life,” he said, a little out of breath for some reason, all too aware their faces were suddenly too close. “You really need to stop doing that,” he smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry,” the man replied, looking as much apologetic as flustered.

Dean shook his head. “I just want you to get better,” he confessed.

They stood there, watching each other a few seconds too long, before the man slowly pulled away, hand flat against Dean’s chest, compelling him to let go. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Okay…”

The man nodded slowly, face carefully neutral as if a storm was about to break on the inside. “I should go.”

“Are you always this stubborn?” Dean gave him a sad smile when he didn’t reply.

Blue-eyes reached the chair beside the door, putting on a brave front even while his legs shook. His breaths came painfully uneven as he checked the contents of his bag and secured the weapons onto its side before undressing the upper part of the pajamas.

“Back in the infirmary,” Dean spoke to the other man’s naked back, forcing his voice to remain steady. “You asked why. Why did I save you? Why do I give a damn? Everyone out there must be wondering the same thing,” Dean murmured. His gaze inevitably trailed the expanse of hard muscles along Blue-eyes’ back, the prominence of the bones down his column, the way his waist narrowed and disappeared below his pants that hung too low on his hips. Dean cleared his throat and looked away. “Is it because you saved my life when you didn’t have to? Probably.” He took a step and paused. “Is it because I know what it’s like not knowing how to belong? Most of the time, yes. Or maybe…” He dared another faltering step. “It’s because the thought of Gordon hurting you pissed me off more than I care to admit. That’s why I brought you here… so I can kick his ass myself if he tries that shit again.”

The guy turned around slowly, briefly swaying before he straightened himself up, all fair skin and lithe muscles, his blues watching Dean under the dim light, as Dean matched his gaze with unwavering conviction.

Dean took another step, the hesitation that filled his heart to the brim evaporating.

“Do I think you can fix whatever messed up condition I have? Judging by the general lack of luck I have, probably not.”

The room was still, save for the drops of rain steadily tapping against the window and their slow breathing. “Dean…” the name gently slid off the man’s tongue as his lips twitched.

And Dean held on to that sound, eyes locking him in and not allowing him to look away. “Do I want to know more about you? Hell yeah.” The man sucked in on a breath, and Dean prayed the tip of the man’s fingers still holding on to the straps of the bag would let go. “But you don’t have to. You don’t need to say a damn thing about you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “For now, staying is enough.” Dean extended his hand for the man to take. “Just until you get better,” he added the promise.

Blue-eyes looked at Dean’s hand, shoulders tensing for a moment’s decision before he groaned pitifully and let go of the bag. Another hesitation and he was holding Dean’s hand in his, but instead of shaking his hand as Dean had expected, his fingertips gently brushed across Dean’s palm before curling around it, using both hands to wrap Dean’s in a cocoon of warm skin.

And it wasn’t so much the way the man’s hands pieced together around his that took Dean’s breath away, but the smile meeting him on the other side, full and bare, reaching his high cheekbones and touching the corner of his eyes with a span of webs. “Alright,” the man said simply, and Dean pulled him by the hand, heart pounding so hard against his ribcage, he was afraid it might explode.

They moved slowly; somewhere along the way, Dean’s hand found the man’s back, curling protectively around him when his step faltered again as he let Dean lead him into bed.

The man sighed in resignation, eyes shutting, and head falling heavily on the pillow while Dean tucked the blankets around him.

“Thank you,” the man muttered groggily, opening his owlish eyes at him, and suddenly Dean had another glimpse behind those walls — a broken vulnerability that came without warning each time the man didn’t seem to be paying attention. Dean made a vow, right then and there, to do his best to mend whatever past had made this man so wary of humankind.

Dean found himself smiling, and if not for the head tilt and frown meeting him on the other end, he wouldn’t even notice he was doing so. “You know it’s funny,” he said. “You’ve made it to my bed, and I don’t even know your name.”

The man’s eyes widened before he replied with a small smile of his own. “Castiel. My name is Castiel.”


	7. Fragile beginnings

_Give it to me,_ the sickening, shrilling voice commanded. _Give it now,_ it raged. Black, cold claws constricted his ribcage, stopping Dean’s lungs from gulping in more air.

_Give it!_

Dean jerked his eyes open and sat up abruptly, making a grab for the knife hidden beneath his pillow, and faced the tranquility of his bedroom for a while. With a heaved breath, he dropped back into the couch’s cushion.

He had these nightmares ever since he was a child, the visions he had whenever he got injured and bled, haunting him even when he was asleep. The visions had started with the first cut and continued each time his condition snapped. Whenever he lost control, something terrible happened to his mind, and he was sent to another realm. A dimension where only pain and darkness ruled with its only master, that wretched creature with long claws and scarlet eyes that always found pleasure in torturing Dean, demanding him to Give it back. Dean had no fucking idea what it meant by that.

Dean rearranged his pillow and shut his eyes tight, turning his back to the wall. After several hours of tangling himself up on the sheets, he had resorted to counting sheep, losing track somewhere after one hundred eight. Dean groaned and shifted in his spot on the sofa, watching the first rays of sunlight cutting through the clouds, burning the blue sky with flaming reds and a promise of a warm day.

He sat up, letting the covers fall to his legs, dragging his hands over his face, thumbs pressing against his temples to ease the pain throbbing behind his eyes. He needed coffee and maybe three friggin’ gallons of alcohol, strong enough to knock him out. Maybe then he would get a good night’s sleep. Dean put the knife back under the pillow and got up.

He rounded the bed, smiling down at the dark hair peeking from beneath the sheets. _Castiel._ After so much time, it felt good to finally put a name to the person who had saved his sorry ass. Castiel stirred, a small line of worry digging between his eyebrows before he relaxed with a low sigh, pulling the sheets up to his nose to hide most of his face. He looked younger in his sleep, with most lines of tiredness ebbed away by dreams.

Dean fetched a clean change of clothes from the dresser, headed into the bathroom, and took a quick shower. Although the water heater didn’t work in his bathroom, he had learned to ignore his body’s reflexive impulse to avoid cold water ever since he was a child, and most days, he didn’t even bother to go to the main floor to indulge in a warm shower. He brushed his teeth, watching his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned his plain green shirt. The dark circles under his eyes stood out more than usual, and he could also use a shave, he thought, brushing his hand over the five-o-clock shadow making its appearance in the mirror. That could wait, though.

The dining hall was empty. Dean’s brown boots echoed against the glossy, mint-colored floor as he rounded the food counter and headed into the kitchen.

“Hey,” Dean mumbled to Jo. The young blonde smiled over her shoulder, her hair was tied up in a bun, and she was wearing the “Kiss the Baker” apron Dean had brought back from one of his runs, over a red shirt and jeans while she prepared the morning meals to serve for breakfast.

“Well, look at you, Mr. Early Bird.”

Dean huffed, kissing the top of her head. “More like a Mr. I Wish I Could Kick Insomnia In The Face Bird.”

Jo gave a low whistle in reply, not taking her eyes from the pile of sandwiches she was carefully preparing. “Yeah,” she let out the quiet confession, “I’ve been there myself. It’s a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah…” Dean moved to the counter on the opposite side of the quarry tile floor to ready two mugs of black coffee. He had no idea how Castiel liked it, or if he even liked coffee at all, so he added a cup of milk to the tray and a bowl of sweetener, just in case. He put four slices of bread in the toaster and leaned on the counter.

Jo was staring at him, an amused smile on her face as she lifted an eyebrow at him. “Making breakfast for bed?”

Dean crossed his arms. “Don’t even start. You know he’s sick; it’s not like he can come get his food himself.” He bit the inside of his cheek and checked the toaster even though he knew enough time hadn’t passed for the toast to be ready.

“Yeah, well,” she turned her attention back to her pile of sandwiches, “just saying what everyone’s been thinking.”

Dean sucked in a sharp breath, a tight ball of dread twisting his stomach in knots. “Everyone?”

She shrugged. “You know this is a small place where nothing exciting happens. Everyone hears and knows everything.”

“Everyone should mind their own fucking business.” Dean shook his head, buttering the four slices of bread when they were ready — golden and crusty; exactly how he liked them. “And there’s nothing to talk about.” He added an apple as an afterthought and turned to leave.

“Then why are you getting so defensive?” she shouted before the kitchen’s door closed behind him.

Dean ignored the few sleepy faces watching him cross the hallway and climb the stairs to his bedroom on the back left. He pushed the door with a foot to find an empty bed. An instant shot of panic raced down his spine, stuttering his breath before the bathroom door opened to reveal a very sleepy, very grumpy Castiel behind it.

Castiel rubbed his eye, barely acknowledging Dean before he noticed what Dean was holding.

“Hungry?” Dean asked with a smile, raising the plastic tray.

Castiel let his hand fall to his side. He had changed clothes while Dean was gone, opting for an oversized wool sweater and a ridiculous pair of boxers with three yellow buns on the front and ‘You checking out my bun?’ written on the back. Dean cleared his throat and looked away, waiting for the other to sit down, crossed leg on the bed before placing the tray in front of him. “I didn’t know how you liked your coffee, so I brought milk, and that’s—”

“Stevia,” Castiel concluded, watching the bowl of white powder as if it had personally offended him. He carefully smelled it before inspecting the rest of the tray.

“Here,” Dean offered Castiel one of the mugs before moving the other to his lips, blowing softly at the brown content before taking a sip. “See? All good,” he said after taking a couple of gulps. “If I wanted to poison you, I wouldn’t have bothered to go through all of this trouble, would I?” He took another sip, watching through his eyelashes as Castiel took a careful sip of his own, his eyes slowly dropping closed as he moaned around the bitter liquid before lowering the mug to focus on the toast. Castiel chewed with deliberation, hesitantly drawing out each bite, savoring it as if he was afraid at any second he would bite on thin air instead of real food.

Dean swallowed down the rest of his coffee, suddenly too bitter around the lump of sorrow filling his throat.

“The toilet works!” Castiel said suddenly after the third bite from his toast.

Dean quietly laughed. “Yup.”

“I haven’t seen one that worked in more than a year,” Castiel explained. “Most places I scavenged either didn’t have running water or were broken from lack of use.” Dean nodded, enjoying the peace bubbling around the two as a warming glow poured from the window and traced Dean’s legs hanging from the bed. “That’s why I always find it best to do my business in nature; it’s cleaner. And, in the words of an old friend, ‘You must hoard toilet paper.’”

Dean remained quiet, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts; it was the first time he had heard Castiel talk more than what was strictly necessary, and he didn’t want it to stop. The quiet words fell with natural ease from Castiel’s lips, filling Dean with enjoyable sounds that tingled lightly in his chest, nudging his heart with a rare and unexpected warmth.

“And all this food,” Castiel continued. “H—how… Where did you get all of this?”

“We grew it,” Dean replied proudly. “Well, most of it at least. This,” he lifted his mug, “we were lucky to find a few months ago in one of our runs. We found a whole aisle filled with coffee packages. Guess while running away from damn zombies, getting coffee isn’t most people’s priority.” Dean shrugged, leaning back on his free hand. “But most of what we eat here, we grow ourselves. I’ll show you the planting area when you get better.” He laughed again, amused at the surprise flashing across the other’s face.

Castiel gave a new decisive bite before downing the rest of his coffee. “I would like to take a shower next if you could lend m—”

“Man, there’s no way I’ll let you take a cold shower! And the doc says you can’t walk around just yet, so no showers downstairs either!”

A muscle in Castiel’s jaw twisted, he sat up straighter, his body becoming stiff beneath the oversized sweater as he settled his mug down, the change so subtle, Dean wouldn’t be able to tell, if not for the fact that he was drinking in everything the other man did. “That’s,” Dean stuttered, realizing he had messed up. “That’s not what I meant.”

Castiel pushed the tray back to Dean and turned his head to the window, his profile shading a few degrees darker, sharpened by the cold in his blues and his tensed jaw.

“You’re not a prisoner here…” Dean made another attempt. “I meant it as… I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“Missouri is a great doctor. You’re lucky to have her,” Castiel deflected, turning his coldness at him, and Dean felt three parts relieved and two terrified, the phrase, _Just leave me be,_ hung heavy in the air. Before Dean could reply, there was a knock on the door, followed by another, quickly growing impatient.

Dean groaned and went to the door, slamming it shut behind him when he was on the other side.

“What the hell is this? A school trip?”

Jo, Charlie, Claire, Sam, and Sarah smiled in sync. “So?” Claire started.

“So,” Dean deadpanned.

“Can we see him?” she pushed on.

“Can y— Are you nuts?” Dean pulled away from the door, dragging them to the middle of the corridor with him. “He’s not some zoo animal, for fuck’s sake.”

“Hey!” Sarah warned, then with a softer tone, “Language,” she added, looking at Claire.

The girl rolled her eyes in reply. “Seriously, I’m not a kid anymore; you can swear all you want. Should I go first?” She opened her mouth, but Sam clapped his hand over her mouth.

“You, not a word,” Sam said between his teeth, looking down at Claire. “And you…” he turned his stern stare at Dean. “C’mon, aren’t you gonna let us in?”

“No!” Dean barked. “How did you even know he was here?”

Charlie drew into herself, trying to go unnoticed.

“Oh, please, everyone’s talking about it,” Sarah remarked.

“Are they now?” Dean glared at Charlie, his lips pinched together.

“Yup,” Claire continued, “so what’s up? Are you lovers or something?”

Dean choked on his own saliva. “We w—what?” he managed to gasp between coughing his friggin’ lungs out.

“Some people, which I’m not gonna say who,” Claire raised both hands at her sides, quickly adding, “but it wasn’t me,” when Dean turned his glare at her, wishing he could actually shoot daggers out of his eyes. “Said they saw you carrying the guy inside.”

“Bridal style,” Sam added.

“Would you stop saying that?” Dean warned, pretty much ready to go ballistic on their asses.

“Inside your bedroom, I mean,” Claire continued her train of thought.

“That’s because of Gordon,” Dean added weakly; it’s not like he had to make up excuses or justify himself. He wasn’t hurting anyone; he could do whatever the hell he wanted, _dammit._

“And today you didn’t even come down for breakfast,” Sarah pointed out.

“Cause I barely slept last ni—” Dean looked up at the few giggles coming from the group and crossed his arms. “No, you know what, I don’t have to explain myself.”

Claire chuckled. “I see…”

“You ‘didn’t sleep’, huh?” Charlie said, wiggling her fingers into bunny-ears.

“W—why are you doing air quotes? Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Usually people use air quotes when what they’re saying isn’t really what they mean,” Sam gave the completely useless explanation.

“Yeah, Einstein,” Dean retorted, “I figured that much, thanks.” He turned his brother around, shoving him away from him. “Now beat it. All of you!” He shooed them. “Go, go!”

Dean reentered the room, only to find the bed empty again. He was about to call out for Castiel when something moved at the corner of his eye. Dean turned to see Castiel glued to the wall, half-hidden by the door. “Sonovabitch!” Dean jumped backward and brought a hand to his chest. “Man, what are you doing?” Dean closed the door. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“Are they gone?” Castiel said in a deceptively composed tone.

“Yeah…” Dean’s eyes traveled along Castiel’s arm, focusing on the metal tip gleaming in his hand before the rest of the sharp object slid out from inside of his sleeve. Castiel gripped the handle to stop its descent. “Did…” Dean stuttered, dumbfounded by what he was seeing. “Did you just pull a sword out of your sleeve?”

“It’s not a sword; it’s a machete,” Castiel said in a matter-of-fact voice, moving to stand by the window.

“Oh, my bad, a machete, that makes it all better then,” Dean replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “What the hell were you gonna do with that? Jeez.” He sat on the couch. “What happened to you, man? They weren’t gonna hurt you if that’s what you thought. They were just curious…”

“If that’s the case, why did you bring me here instead of the infirmary?” Castiel glanced away from the window to study Dean.

“That’s different…” he said, watching his hands. “That’s Gordon. But still… there’s no need to cut anyone’s throat. And trust me, the guy pisses me off too, but…”

“I don’t see a watchtower from here,” Castiel interrupted. Which was a completely different tangent to what they were talking about but okay. That was something Castiel seemed to do when the conversation got the slightest bit uncomfortable. As much as it gave Dean fucking whiplash, he would gladly oblige as long as it took away some of Castiel’s worries. “I clearly saw one from the infirmary but not from here,” he carried on, oblivious to Dean’s confusion. His voice was filled with coldness, similar to when they were back in the infirmary. None of the amiability wrapping it just minutes ago. Castiel studied the outside view, a line of tension working the muscles in his shoulders. He reminded Dean of the soldiers from back in the day. Most of them had died in the war that followed the first years of the outbreak. Nearly all those who didn’t die were now part of the brainless faction they once tried to extinguish.

“There’s a watchtower in each corner of the outer wall,” Dean mumbled, still lost in his thoughts. “You can’t see them from here because we’re about halfway between either corner. You would have to walk for a—” Dean’s mind came to a screeching stop. Alarm bells going off in his head. “Why’d you?” Dean stepped to his side, gripping Castiel by the arm to force him to look at him, going from confused to pissed-off in a split second. “Dammit, Cas! You’re not gonna pull a runaway bride again, are you?” Dean asked, immediately regretting the comparison but not letting it stop his train of thought. “No one's gonna hurt you, okay? Besides, this is the upper floor. You’d break a leg at least during that stunt.”

Castiel stared vacantly as if Dean’s words were as distant as a piano playing in the background. And Dean wasn’t sure if he was pushing the limits of what was socially acceptable to hold someone’s arm, or if he should grab the other arm as well and shake the damned fool until he stopped trying to run away from him. _The fort. He meant run away from the fort._

“What did you call me?”

Dean scrunched his face. _Say what now?_

“What?”

“You said Cas. Not Castiel.”

“Oh…” Dean could feel a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Sorry, I didn’t even notice I did that. I don’t know what got int—”

Castiel shook his head. “Gabriel used to call me that.” He looked away, eyes fixed somewhere in the sky. “I had forgotten how that sounded.”

_Gabriel? Oh._

Dean let go of Castiel’s arm like he had been burned. “I didn’t mean to… I thought…” There it was; Gabriel was most likely his boyfriend and probably the reason he wanted to leave the fort so badly. Which fine, whatever, who cared anyway. _Not Dean, that’s for freaking sure._

Castiel turned a soft smile at him, filled with sadness and something else Dean couldn’t put his finger on. “It’s alright; it was a long time ago,” he said, turning to place his machete near his bag.

Dean wanted to know what happened, the questions pilling up on the tip of his tongue. Who was Gabriel? Where was he now? And what terrible past seemed to eat at Castiel’s mind each time he let Dean find something new about himself?

Most of the wanderers that ended up in the Keeper were like that. Their whole family ripped to pieces by the virus. Most of them with memories so hideous it hurt to even talk about it. Was Cas like that too? Then why was he so eager to leave? Dean sighed. In many ways, Cas _was_ a prisoner here, and that fact alone was enough to consume Dean to the core.

“You know what? Screw it,” Dean blurted. “You want a hot shower? Let’s go then.”

“But the doctor,” Castiel started.

“It’s for a good cause; she will understand,” Dean said, drawing near. “I mean,” Dean sniffed a couple of times, “you reek, man.”


	8. Whispers to the Night

Dean took the light-brown towel from one of the untagged top lockers. All the deep gray doors had an improvised nameplate of the owner of that locker. Every time someone new arrived, it had become part of the welcoming ritual to assign one of the lockers to the newbie by having them write their name on a piece of cardboard and attach it to the locker’s door.

In Cas’ case, though, the situation was a bit more complicated. For now, Dean had convinced him to stay, but as soon as Cas felt well enough to walk without the risk of collapsing, he was probably leaving never to be seen again.

Dean closed the locker and went to the shower area where Cas was eyeing the water tap with a suspicious frown. “I haven’t taken a shower in years.” He touched the metallic faucet with calculated care. “All the houses I’ve scavenged lacked running water or pipes that worked. I mostly used streams or rivers to do the job.”

“Haven’t you run into other places like this one?” Dean immediately kicked himself mentally for breaking his promise of not intruding, though he could allow himself this one question since it wasn’t exactly a personal one; it was just making conversation.

Castiel shook his head, turning the faucet on slowly as if he was dealing with a ticking time bomb. Dean placed the towel and a set of clothes on the nearby stool and padded to Cas’ side. “This one is for hot water,” he explained, turning the right faucet and opening the shower to its fullest. “It takes a while for it to get warm, but if I were you, I would open them both evenly,” Dean added, leaning to turn on the left one as well, careful not to get wet. “Otherwise, after a couple of minutes, the water gets so hot, it will boil your skin. It’s good if you’re looking for a natural peeling. Otherwise, I don’t recommend it.” Dean beamed at Cas and was rewarded with a wide smile that showed his gum. “Anyway,” Dean ran his hand through his hair. “There’s a towel and clean clothes on the stool. And here, put this on before showering,” Dean offered him a new gauze covered in plastic film. “It’s waterproof,” he clarified.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, taking the gauze from Dean and pulling the sweater over his head.

_And that’s Dean’s cue._

Dean turned, stopping at Cas’ voice, “Dean?” he said, hesitation making his voice hang in the air, dissipating between the water drops. “Will you stay nearby?” Castiel watched him from the other side of the shower, the blue in his eyes richer through the veil of water.

“I’ll be right outside,” Dean reassured, feeling his chest brimming with something he did not dare to name.

Dean sat against the lockers, fingers absently running over the dark tiles cold beneath him, offering him a welcome relief against the warm mist steadily filling the room. He couldn’t figure out what it was about Cas that had such a strong pull on him. He had saved his goddamn life; that was enough to win points in Dean’s book. And he was easy on the eye too; Dean had to give him that. But there was something more there, something that defied all sense of logic seeping through the barriers Dean had built around him that stopped him from getting attached to anyone but family.

Maybe it was only his sense of duty, jumbling his head, but the fact that Dean cared enough that the simple thought of Castiel leaving made his lungs tighten almost to the point it hurt to breathe was scary as fuck, but also kind of thrilling. Dean tightened his jaw and tipped his head back, his eyelids falling closed as the murmur of water filled the background.

Dean didn’t know how much time had passed, but when the quiet splash of Cas’ footsteps filled the room, he opened his eyes and was met by a very wet and also very fucking naked Castiel. His towel over his neck. “What the hell, man!” Dean covered his eyes and hastily ducked his head. He buried his face between his legs, hoping that was enough to hide the warm blush furiously staining his cheeks. “The towel isn’t just to go around and look pretty.”

“It’s just the two of us here, I don’t mind,” he deadpanned.

“Clearly,” Dean retorted, grateful that Cas hadn’t picked up on the traitorous praise that had slipped from his tongue.

The soft ruffle of fabric filled the silence around them before the wooden stool in front of Dean gave in with a gentle crack. Dean dared a look, unable to stop himself or the aching warmth blossoming low in his gut. Cas was sitting on the stool right in front of him, with his back turned to him. His muscular back stretched and clenched as Cas dried himself. The angle made the dim light that seeped through the window against his damp skin glisten and wrap him in a bright halo. For a moment, Dean almost swore there was something else there casting shadows along the bones of his shoulder blades. There wasn’t much Dean could do besides watch, mesmerized by the scene perfect enough to belong to a painting, heart stuck in his throat, beating a mile a minute. His fingers quivered, and Dean closed his hand into a fist, fighting the sudden urge to reach out and bury his fingers in that perfectly untidy hair, to pull Cas’ head back none-too-gently, and trail the paths of water dripping down his neck with his tongue, lips closing over skin, sucking and licking until Cas was nothing but a moaning mess.

“Dean?” Cas’ voice snapped him out of his fantasy. Panic rushed through Dean, afraid he had said something out loud. “Are you still there?” he asked, a smile evident in his voice.

“Uh—” Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. “Y—yeah.”

Castiel got up, still facing the other way to pull up his jeans. “You’re cute when you’re nervous,” came the confession, surprising them both if the way Cas’ muscles tensed was anything to go by.

“I’m not… I don’t,” Dean babbled weakly, grateful Castiel wasn’t looking at him.

Before he could come up with any kind of excuse for his sudden, friggin’ high-schooler behavior, Cas turned around hastily, grasping Dean’s hands and hauling him to his feet in one swift motion. For one wild second, Dean was pretty sure those plump lips were about to smash into him, and not one ounce of him was about to resist. But before Dean could close his eyes and let himself go, Cas pulled him again, dragging him along the aisle and turning the corner.

Dean found himself pushed against the lockers, hidden from the corridor they had just stood in a few moments before. “Look,” Dean panted, a little out of breath. “I’m not opposed to kinky stuff bu—”

Cas cut off his words with his hand, fingers warm against Dean’s lips as a new wave of heat left a shivering trail down his spine. Dean drew in a breath through his nose, all too aware that Cas was practically naked as he pressed against him, jeans hanging low on his hips, a few stray droplets of water lazily trailing down his chest, skin flushed pink from the shower and dampened in a mingled scent of apples and mint. It wasn’t long after that three sets of voices entered the room, and Dean realized they weren’t alone anymore. Cas’ fingers slipped from Dean’s mouth, and he took a peek, careful not to be seen by Gordon and his men.

“That’s kinda extreme, Cas,” Dean said, not sure why he was whispering. “It’s not like they’re gonna kill us or something.”

Castiel shook his head, eyes set on the men that were getting ready to take a shower. “I’d just prefer it if we don’t cross paths at the moment. I can fight them off if need be, but I’m still not at full capacity of my abilities, so I fear I would not be able to protect you.”

Dean snorted. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Cas could kick their screwed-up asses again, but what was he, a goddamn damsel in distress? “Alright, Mike Tyson,” Dean said, pulling away from the locker after making sure the others were gone. “Let’s go.”

“I—” Cas hesitated, squinting his eyes at him. “My name isn’t—”

Dean let out a breathy chuckle. “I’ll explain later,” he replied, a smile spreading on his lips.

xxx

Dean breathed in relief when they left the shared bathroom. The air felt lighter now that Cas was fully dressed. They had just turned the corner when Dean was all but knocked on his ass, “Watch it, Sasquatch!”

Sam smirked down at him. “It’s not my fault I can barely see you from up here.”

Dean flipped him off.

Cas stood still, puzzled eyes darting between them both with a small head tilt, making him look like a confused cat. “Huh, Cas, this is my bigfoot brother, Sam.” Dean looked at his brother. “Sammy, this is C—”

“Castiel.” Sam stepped forward, hand reaching out. “Nice to finally meet you!”

Cas frowned down, studying Sam’s hand for a moment long enough to speed up Dean’s heartbeat. He released his breath when Cas shook Sam’s hand, a small smile playing at his lips. “Likewise.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Sam continued, and Dean hoped his _I’ll-piss-on-everything-you-love_ look was enough to keep Sam from mentioning anything about the bridal-style nonsense he was too happy to remind Dean about.

“I think everyone’s heard about you by now,” Dean quickly added with an apologetic smile, immediately regretting his words when Cas seemed to draw into himself, clutching his belongings closer to his chest, visibly trying to make himself look smaller.

“Do you think I could come talk to you one of these days?” Sam continued, oblivious to Cas’ mild freak out. “You see,” he flipped through one of the folders he carried until a map showed up. “Demographically, from the information I’ve gathered, the zombie population increases the more you travel north.” Dean scratched his jaw, crossing his arms as some of the papers filled with doodles and scribbles fell to the floor. Sam quickly grabbed them with Castiel’s help, who took the map for himself. “Dean told me you’d been around, so maybe you can double-check what I have?” Sam asked, watching Cas with hopeful eyes.

Cas analyzed the map with a frown, the silence so strained Dean was about to call it quits.

“Not exactly,” Castiel finally asserted. He gave the map back to Sam, pressing his index to where they were on the map. “Their conglomeration significantly increases as you move north, yes,” his finger moved up as he continued his explanation, the lines of tension in his neck slowly vanishing as he became enthralled in the conversation, “but their numbers drop once you go through the center of the country and keep going north.” He poked his finger where Kansas was. “I would say the epicenter is somewhere around here.”

Dean swallowed thickly, not needing to read minds to know what his brother was thinking when he looked up at Dean. Sam lowered his eyebrows, slowly nodding as he turned back to Cas. “I was afraid you were going to say that, actually,” he said with a mirthless laugh.

“That’s where our hometown is,” Dean clarified when Cas raised his eyes in confusion.

“Oh, I see,” Cas leaned back from the map. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay, man; thanks for the info.” Sam sent him a small smile, patting his shoulder before putting the map back in the folder and turning to leave. “We’ll talk later. Have some more questions for you!” he shouted over his shoulder, already crossing the corridor to the back door.

“I’m sorry I don’t have better news,” Cas said after a while.

Dean waved a hand in the direction his brother had disappeared behind the door. “No worries,” Dean offered a smile when Cas seemed hesitant to start climbing up the stairs. By now, most people were up, and the curious stares followed them all the way upstairs. “Nothing could break Sam’s belief in fixing the shit we’re in,” Dean continued, ignoring them.

Ever since Sam was old enough to read, his primary purpose had been finding a cure for the Croatoan virus. The fact that their parents had died the way they did had only fueled his determination. He had never blamed Dean, justifying their death with the robbers that had attacked them that night. _You were just a kid, Dean,_ he repeated each time Dean found himself on the brink of collapsing under the pile of guilt that had kept him company since that night. Most days though, like today, Dean would rather shove all those thoughts to the darker corner of his mind, shrugging it off with a, “Next, he’s gonna try for world peace.” Dean chuckled.

“What about you?” The question took Dean by surprise, voice low and expectant as Cas looked up, the same fragment of hope Dean used to see in his brother’s eyes flashing across blues. Dean paused, hand halfway to the doorknob of his bedroom.

“I stopped believing in fairytales when I was four,” Dean replied, voice strained as he went in without making eye contact. If Cas wanted to know why, he never voiced it, and Dean was grateful for that.

xxx

The rest of the week passed at a slow, peaceful beat. Cas was healing faster than Missouri had predicted. By the time the second week rolled around, the bandage was finally gone, almost no scar left behind to remind them of the near-death-experience, only pink, delicate skin and chapped, rosy lips smiling back at Dean as the color steadily returned to Cas’ cheeks.

And as much as that made Dean happy, he couldn’t help feeling a little hopeless too, knowing Cas’ time with them was coming to an end. Missouri had given him the clearance to leave the room but had expressed that Cas shouldn’t go outdoors under any circumstance, much to Cas’ despair. So Dean had dragged a very grumpy Cas around for an inside tour. Dean had done his best to cheer him up, but Cas had looked miserable the whole time, lips all but pouting, a frown deep between his eyebrows. Dean was about to give up when they reached the library and the array of books.

“Most of these Sam found himself,” Dean announced, half proud, half relieved, watching the edges of Cas’ smile playing at the corner of his eyes.

From then on, Castiel passed most of his afternoons at the library with Sam, clearly at ease surrounded by books and Sammy’s always too eager questions.

The first day Cas had met the rest of the group, Dean had to down two glasses of whiskey just to calm his nerves. It was lunchtime, and the dining room was full. Dean joined the group at one of the tables, and Cas sat down opposite him, posture rigid, hands over his knees, looking as much as in need of alcohol as Dean. It was a rough start, and Dean was sure he was about to witness a fucking train wreck. Cas’ replies mostly consisted of yes or no answers, and Dean could do nothing but watch, a drop of sweat condensing at the nape of his neck, reaching the brim of his shirt by the time Cas was apologizing for his lack of social skills. “I’m sorry, my people skills are rusty,” he said in a low and almost embarrassed tone. He was met by broad, reassuring smiles from the group before they changed the conversation’s focus off him, giving Cas the chance to chime in at his own pace.

“We should have fighting classes for everyone,” Lisa leaned back on her chair. “I mean, it can’t always be you guys to have our backs when someone needs to get out there.”

“Everyone contributes as they can,” Donna argued, “as long as each of us does their job, I don’t see why we need to change our ways.”

“For starters, because any of us could kick the bucket tomorrow,” Ellen crossed her arms over the table. “Some of us already did,” she added almost as an afterthought. “And the others are getting old,” she said, looking at Bobby.

Bobby grumbled something under his breath, and pointedly didn’t look back.

“But what would we teach them, and how?” Charlie asked. “It’s not like we have guns lying around. And knives require more of a face to face combat which most of the group isn’t prepared for.”

“You could use machetes,” the deep, gruff voice surprised them all. “Even though the design is different, they can be used for the same purpose as a sword,” Castiel continued despite the bugged-eyed crowd watching him, growing confidence filling the edges of each word. “The blade is longer, and they’re quite heavy and robust, making it an efficient weapon to split the skull. With the appropriate skills, you can kill them instantly, no need for combat.” He paused, looking around the group, struggling not to look unsure despite the steadiness of his breathing. “And they’re quite easy to come by since not many people find them useful to kill the undead.”

“That’s…” Jody considered it for a moment, “that’s actually not a bad idea.”

“But none of us have experience using it.”

Castiel looked down, fiddling with the sleeve of his colorful sweater. When he looked up, his eyes found Dean’s. Dean’s smile came easy, lingering long enough to encourage Cas’ faltering confidence. “I can teach you,” Cas said, at last, offering the rest of the group a gentle smile, his expression changing from shaky to friendly in the same breath as the group readily accepted his offer.

Dean sighed into his chair and couldn’t help but smile wider, trying not to look too relieved and proud. The group had returned to their previous conversations when Dean noticed the blue eyes tender on him, watching him across the table. _Thank you,_ Cas mouthed. There was something about the not-so-faint curve of lips, the way the crow feet kissed the corner of his eyes that was so vulnerable and gentle that Dean had to look away. He pressed his palms over his heated cheeks when no one was looking, blaming the blush on the whiskey.

Cas kept mostly to himself every time they were with the group, and Dean took it as his mission to decipher every micro-change in his face. The way he tilted his head when he was confused, or the way his brows furrowed when the conversation demanded more concentration. The only times Cas seemed to be fully at ease was when he was hidden in the library or when they were by themselves.

Dean was captivated, watching his shell slowly crack, savoring each inch of wall that crumbled, every glimpse of Cas he could get. His bedroom had become _theirs_. And Dean didn’t dare ask Cas if he wanted his own bedroom now, too selfish to end those moments at night, passed together counting the spots across the ceiling, enthralled in a world that was just theirs.

_Stay,_ Dean murmured to the night when Cas couldn't hear him, too terrified of an answer that would probably end in a goodbye. _Stay,_ he repeated long after Cas was sound asleep. This was only temporary after all, and soon he would be leaving the Keeper, Cas repeated each time he seemed on the verge of surrendering to that new feeling Dean knew threatened to choke them both. _Stay,_ Dean wished, hand around his necklace, hoping Cas’ dreams would echo his pleas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter is my favorite so far, even though my heart is aching for Dean. But I hope you enjoyed this as much as I loved writing it.


	9. Before the World Goes Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you everyone so much for your feedback!! And we just hit 100 kudos yay The fact that you picked up this fic in the first place and continue reading it each week makes me truly happy. I love sharing this with all of you!  
> Also don’t forget to [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/casblackfeathers) if you wanna keep being updated on this story and any future fics of mine. Also, come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://casblackfeathers.tumblr.com/), I would love to see you there!!

Dean found him at the library — softly snoring in his favorite spot, snuggled against the propped pillows by the window seat, wearing a baby-blue cable knit sweater that made his dark hair pop, and olive jeans. A book half-hung from his hand, index finger marking the page he had been reading, his lips slightly parted and a cute little frown between his brows.

Dean drew closer. The sun poured against Cas’ stilled frame, cutting around his silhouette perfectly. June was just around the corner, and the first rays with the promise of summer poured lazily through the window.

Cas moved with a low moan, and the book fell from his fingers, the worn-out black leather cover facing Dean from the dark wooden floor. Dean scrunched down, the scarlet title making up the words _A Ul_ glistened mockingly at Dean as he pulled it close. He slid his thumb against the engraved letters. Sam had tried to decipher the book ever since Ruby had shown him the damned thing. It described in detail how the apocalypse had come to be, Sam had said in the short few moments he and Dean had talked about the book, and he hoped that it would also explain how they could fix the plague that had turned so many of them. The languages changed in degree the more in-depth the subject was. Sam had translated most of the languages; there was one, though, despite all his efforts, he couldn’t figure out. That was the most important one, he said. The missing piece they needed to solve the whole thing.

For all Dean knew, that _missing piece_ could be nothing more than a bunch of gibberish made up by some nutjob with nothing better to do with their life.

Cas stirred up, his eyes slowly cracking open, a hint of confusion mixing with their blues before they landed on Dean.

“Hey,” Dean greeted a little out of breath.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replied, smiling sweetly up at him.

“Can’t believe my brother dragged you into this,” Dean said, shuffling through the pages of the book in his hand.

“He didn’t have to.” Cas shook his head. “I offered myself.”

Dean chuckled. “Why? Do you speak crazy?”

Cas looked away. “No…” he said, voice vacillating on the dragged out denial.

“So… any luck?” Dean asked, ignoring how Cas seemed to draw into himself.

“N—no,” he stuttered, not meeting Dean’s eyes, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. For a moment, Dean wondered if he was hiding something or was merely ashamed that he couldn’t figure it out.

“Hey,” Dean reached out, fingers sliding over Cas’ knee long enough to bring his gaze back to Dean’s. “It’s totally fine if you can’t figure it out. Truth is, we’ve been trying for years and didn’t have any luck either. So… no pressure, okay? My brother keeps insisting this crap is the answer to everything, but if you ask me, our problems can’t be solved by a magic potion laying somewhere in a book.”

Cas smiled, something tainting the lines on his face as he gazed at the book. “How do you know there isn’t a solution hiding here?”

“Let’s just say our source wasn’t the most reliable one.”

“Still…” Cas looked up from the book and met Dean’s eyes again, his face haunted with weariness; there was something else there too, but Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Dean nodded. “I guess we’ll never know,” he murmured, looking down at the book resting heavily in his hands before laughing quietly.

“What?” Cas tilted his head in that way Dean was becoming all too familiar with.

“It’s just…” Dean brought his eyes up again. “I didn’t take you for a believer.”

“In what?”

“That there’s a cure. That everything can be fixed.”

“I don’t,” came the swift reply, a wave of sorrow filling the words despite Cas’ attempt to shrug it off with a smile. Dean watched the way his lips quickly gave up on holding a smile. His shoulders sagged against the pillows, jaw tightening as he seemingly tried to hide the wave of raw, vulnerable emotions painting his eyes darker. And Dean could almost hear the words _Not anymore_ , resounding loudly in the silence after.

Without thinking, Dean reached up, stroking a curl of stray hair away from Cas’ forehead. Dean gulped hard, smirking in embarrassment when Cas’ expression turned into surprise before his eyes grew kinder, and Dean was rewarded with a smile, a real one this time. Dean straightened up, his fingers bravely brushing Cas’ cheek before he stepped back.

“C’mon,” Dean added, suddenly feeling lighter. “You don’t want to miss your first day outside.”

xxx

Cas looked like a kid in a candy store — mouth half hanging open, eyes wide and avid to absorb every little detail surrounding them. “This looks like…” he paused, struggling to find the right word.

“Paradise?” Dean provided. And it really looked like one. The garden took up all the back area of the fort, and with the steady increase of warm weather and sunny days, the crops brimmed with lush greens and vivid scents. A stray butterfly flew past them, as Cas smiled at numerous bees flying from flower to flower and the melody of numerous birds chanting their happiness at the rays of sunshine. “You should have seen this four years ago,” Dean continued. “It was a mess. Ever since Sarah arrived here, the garden took a one hundred and eighty-degree turn. We’re one step away from being self-sufficient. We still struggle, especially in the winter. But I’m hoping that will change this summer.”

“Does the garden produce all year?” Cas asked, kneeling in front of a blueberry bush. By this time of the year, most crops were ready to bear fruit.

“Hmm, hmm,” Dean hummed, absently watching Cas move across the aisles, touching and studying each different crop.

“Greenhouse?” he asked, pointing to the glasshouse in the back.

“Yeah,” Dean followed Cas, stopping in front of one of the potato crops to remove a handful of dead leaves. “That’s where you can always find Sarah — buried in dirt and compost.”

“You use compost?” he turned to Dean, sounding honestly surprised.

“Yup,” Dean replied, voice dripping with smugness despite his best effort. “My idea! We have three compost bays close to the south wall.”

“Impressive,” Cas confessed, straightening up and coming to stand by Dean’s side. “And you’ve been able to keep a steady production?”

“Yeah. A couple of pests here and there, especially outdoors. But we’ve been doing okay.”

“Have you tried ladybugs?”

“Ladybugs?” Dean’s eyebrows shot up.

“They’re quite effective against most pests,” he informed, shaking off the dirt from his hands. “And help stabilize the environment.”

“And you’re a brain about veggies too? Why am I not surprised?” Dean crossed his arms, watching Cas do his cute little head tilt, his smile disarming enough to keep Dean going, “Is there anything you're not good at?” the flirtatious words came out easily as he followed Cas between the patches of green rows of potatoes.

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” Cas smirked over his shoulder.

Dean chuckled, burying his hands in his pockets. A comfortable ease pooled in his chest as he watched Cas inspect one after another row of crops, his tousled hair curling and sticking at the nape of his neck, a roll of sweat drawing an invisible line down his skin, disappearing beneath his blue sweater. _Dean’s_ blue sweater — a little voice rejoiced in the back of his head. Despite the warmer weather, Cas had a thing for sweaters, the weirder, the better. Dean wasn’t much of a sweaters’ guy unless it was the peak of winter, so he had proposed Cas could borrow his. The smile he received in reply had made Dean’s week. The afternoon’s sun hit Cas’ back just right, and for a moment, Dean imagined it was him pressed against Cas’ shape, chasing each wet path of sweat with his tongue.

Dean was comfortable flirting. He excelled at it. Back in the day when it was just him, Sammy, and Bobby on the road, he got used to fooling around every opportunity he got. Men, women, Dean didn’t mind either genre; as long as the person piqued his interest, Dean was game.

Of course, that had changed when they found the Keeper. While they got comfortable with a fixed place to call home and a group of people that slowly grew to become their family, Dean tried to settle down too. Lisa was everything he could wish for — she was kind, beautiful, and full of a life outside of the one that came with hunting the undead. Her son, Ben, had been a wonderful bonus as part of the relationship, and even if he wasn’t Dean’s son, he had been the opportunity for Dean to be what their father never got the chance to be for both Sam and Dean.

But between wanting to be and actually being, there was one hell of a distance, and after a year, even Dean’s stubbornness wasn’t enough to make it work.

After that, Dean had never tried again, not the short-lived, sloppy one-night stands or the lasting, stable relationships. There were always other things to think about, other urgent matters to keep his mind busy, and whenever it got really tough, his hands worked just fine to find release. Deep down inside, Dean knew he wasn’t cut out for relationships. His years before the Keeper, living as a Croat hunter didn’t allow him that, and then, when that wasn’t an excuse anymore, Dean’s own self-loathing didn’t allow him to ever really let anyone in.

“If you keep thinking that hard,” came Cas’ voice from the other side of the wall of grapevines, the greenery tall enough to reach Cas’ waist. “I’m afraid a vein in your forehead will pop,” he ended with a bright smile.

Dean smiled back, shaking his head. He was about to give him a smart-aleck reply when the static from his radio preceded Sam’s voice that reverberated through the air. “Dean, I think we have a problem!”

Dean brought the radio to his mouth. “What is it?” he said, watching the line between Cas’ brows deepen along with the movement behind Dean.

Before Sam could reply, Jo came into view through the fort’s door, gasping as she tightened her hold around the axe in her hand. “Dean, come quick!” she shouted from the doorway. “It’s Claire, Alex, and Ben. They ran off!”

xxx

Dean used the radio to reach out to each council member to decide their plan of action before making a quick visit to the armory to grab their weapons and heading out. “How far away are they?” Dean asked, crossing the whole expanse of the front yard without looking at his brother, who was right on his tail, taking long, quick steps to keep up with Dean’s pace.

Sam checked his watch. “They entered the cornfield around twenty minutes ago, so if we’re quick, we can still catch them,” he replied. He had been on the east watchtower and had been the one to spot them and warn the rest of the fort.

“We need to be quick, or we’ll lose their trail,” Jo said right behind.

Dean nodded. The cornfield was the fastest way on foot downhill and into the forest on the east. If they reached the forest, the chances of finding them would be slim to fucking none.

As soon as Dean reached the last storage house, where their vehicles were parked, Lisa joined the group, adjusting her backpack on her shoulders, a small axe in her hand, and an expression that screamed murder. “I’m ready,” she replied fiercely.

“I’d like to join as well.” Donna came to stand by her side. “I was supposed to be watching the classroom while Sam was on patrol.” She rubbed her neck, not making eye contact with anyone in the group. “They asked me to go to the bathroom, and I didn’t think anything of it. I mean,” she shrugged heavily, moving the sledgehammer hanging heavily in her hand back and forth as she spoke. “I couldn’t imagine they were planning something like this. How could I know? Maybe if I had taken a closer look, maybe there were clues I didn’t—”

“Hey!” Dean stepped closer, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Stop beating yourself up; this is not on you.” He squeezed her shoulder to make her look up at him, hoping the small smile he managed through his own nervousness was enough to reassure her.

Dean turned to the Impala, his baby was the fastest car they had, and when it came to important tasks, he trusted no other vehicle to get the job done. He pulled the trunk open to check if they had everything they needed — his holster, which he secured around his waist, ropes, a first aid kit, a couple of different bars and hammers, two flashlights and flares; Dean threw in his axe for good measure and tucked his gun in the back of his pants. He directed Lisa and Jo to one of their fastest vans and motioned Donna to join him. “Sam,” he said, turning to his brother. “You go back to the tower, keep me posted on their movements.”

“Dean,” he started hesitantly. “What if we can’t reach them?”

Dean slammed the trunk closed. “We will, okay? We’ll get to them before they cross the crops.” He forced a smile. “Now go back up there and keep an eye on them.”

Dean waited for Sam to disappear under the sunlight outside before leaning against his car; he heaved a breath, pinching his eyes with his fingers.

“Need me to come with?” came Bobby’s scruff voice.

Dean raised his head. “No need. I already warned the others, and the agreement was four people were more than enough to handle this. If it comes to… y’know, them disappearing completely, we’ll get everyone together and decide how many search groups we should send out there.”

“Gotcha.”

Dean nodded, frowning when he caught movement behind Bobby’s shoulder. The tousled dark hair was the first thing that came into focus before Cas made his way to them, his crossbow perched on his shoulder and his machete tightly secured on his waist.

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going too,” Cas announced

“No way!” Dean shook his head quickly, voice loud enough to make Donna, who was currently struggling with fitting the sledgehammer in the passenger seat with her, turn her head at them.

Bobby shifted a curious look between the two of them before clearing his throat. “I’m gonna…” He pointed with his thumb to Donna and proceeded to help her out.

“Dean…” Cas’ spoke again when Bobby was gone, his brows furrowing in frustration.

“Listen,” Dean pulled him aside, his hand curling around Cas’ wrist to lead him to the corner of the storage house, “I already have enough on my plate with the kids running around who knows where. I can’t have you there—”

“I’m not a child, Dean!” he objected.

“I know that! It’s just…” Dean lowered his eyes, fingers absently fiddling with Cas’ sleeve.

“I can take care of myself,” Cas noted sternly, inching closer before adding softer, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“And how do I fucking do that, huh?” Dean looked up, eyes meeting the other’s disgruntled blues. “Should I just snap my fingers and make it go away?”

A soft heave pulled Cas’ lips apart, his exasperation melting into fondness as he covered Dean’s fingers with his own and pulled Dean’s breath sharply from his lungs. “I know my health as of late has been highly unsatisfactory, but I’m completely healed now, and I’m very much capable of—”

“I know that!” Dean nodded once. “I truly do. I mean, I’m pretty sure you could kick everyone’s asses if you wanted to.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” Cas pressed on. “Right?”

_Right._

It wasn’t like Cas was a weakling needing Dean’s protection, so why Dean was acting like an overprotective mother bear completely baffled him. Cas had a sturdy build, made of six feet of muscles and badassery, and he could damn well take care of himself, he had done it way before Dean had literally fallen into his life, and he would continue to do that way after leaving the fort — _and Dean_ — behind.

Dean gnawed on his lower lip, glancing at Cas’ fingers holding his one last time before reluctantly letting go. “Okay, but please be careful.”

Cas smiled sweetly up at him. “I will.”

“Dean!” Lisa urged. “We need to go.”

“Comin’!” he watched Cas a few seconds longer before turning, mumbling over his shoulder, “Just please stay close.”

“I will,” came the gentle promise before they got inside the Impala, Dean in the driver’s seat with Cas in the back, right where his reassuring reflection met Dean’s through the rearview mirror from time to time while they rushed after the others.

Baby’s engine purred away from the Keeper in the direction of the cornfield as Dean floored the gas pedal.

They stopped by the edge of the green crops; their amber, fuzzy tassels swayed gently in the breeze as if inviting them inside. Dean gritted his teeth and climbed out of the car, going straight to the trunk.

“We split up to cover more ground. Donna and Lisa, you’ll go together. Cas and Jo, you’re with me,” Dean announced to the small group gathered around him. “You know the drill.” He handed out everyone’s radios along with the flares. “Light up one of these, and the others will go straight to you. Donna,” he called, setting the countdown timer in his watch. “Meet us back here in exactly one hour; I don’t want any more people wandering around here when it gets dark,” he said, watching Donna doing the same to her watch. “No matter if you find anyone or not, okay?”

“Yeah,” she said promptly, already walking away. “No worries!”

Dean added the flares to his holster along with his hammer and checked his gun one more time, taking a deep breath as he watched the two women disappear inside the field. “Alright, let’s go.”

xxx

Dean heard Jo behind him, grumbling under her breath. They advanced at a slow pace, doing their best not to fall headfirst on the mix of dead leaves and old roots. Dean pushed away another stalk. They could barely hear the crunching of dead foliage beneath their heavy footsteps over the trilling birdsong and perpetual buzzing of the first cicadas of the season that didn’t seem fazed that a group of strangers was trespassing in their home.

The wind whipped around them, rustling the mellow tassels, moving them back and forth like waves beating along the shore. It hissed into a quiet whistle the deeper they got into the field.

The tall, dense stems filtered most of the light this far in. The rows of corn had been planted two feet apart; Frank used to be in charge of taking care of the crops along with a group of helpers that always varied based on how much work there was. But Frank had always been the person dedicated to it; he called it his sanctuary, his escape from the horrors of the world.

He would come out here and spend all afternoon, rake at hand to check on the corn and clear out the dead and decayed vegetation. But the cornfield had proved to be much more deadly than anyone had anticipated. As the crops grew, the more difficult it was to see, and when you let your guard down, bad things happen.

The horde of Croats came out of nowhere, and before Frank knew it, he was not only cornered but bitten too. He had killed himself after saying his goodbyes to everyone.

No one had bothered cleaning up the crops since, and they weren’t allowed to come here alone either. With time, the abandoned field changed from growing in neat rows to growing in patches, making it look like a maze one could get lost in easily.

Cas came to an abrupt stop, his shoulders tensing up as he told them to be quiet.

“What is it?” Jo whispered over Dean’s shoulder.

“Can you hear them?” Dean asked.

Dean raised his eyes to the sky. It was probably Dean’s imagination, but suddenly he couldn’t hear anything, not the birds, not the cicadas, not a damned thing.

“Get ready,” came the strained reply.

Dean wanted to ask for what, but it didn’t matter anyway. Whatever was about to hit them head first, by the time Dean heard the first snap of leaves, it was too late to do much more than draw his gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t hate me after this cliffhanger, I know it's a mean one. :P


	10. Death Wears Corn-Chains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me and took me so much time to write because I simply don’t like to kill off characters, even if it’s secondary characters, it still hurts. But hey, I need to go where the story takes me. I'm just glad this one is done and ready and out there for you to read and hopefully enjoy even though this is an intense one. 
> 
> A few warnings: there's a bit of violence in this chapter, the show level type; nothing too graphic. Also there's minor character death, SO if you'd like to skip this chapter let me know in the comments and I can write you a summary of this chapter :)
> 
> Be safe, and happy reading! (or, y'know, something-something reading since this isn't a happy chapter, but you get what I mean :P)

Another snap at his right was all the warning Dean got before he was thrown to the ground with a dull thud. The pain flared along his back to his leg from the weight of the body landing on him. Dean tried to groan against the acute ache, but all he managed to do was stutter an inhale before gasping out a sharp breath.

He fumbled for his gun and looked up only to be met by a wide-eyed Ben, staring back at him. A deep gash ran along his forehead, and his eyes were red and filled with tears. “You have to help us,” he pleaded, leaning back on his haunches as he looked between the other two with terrified eyes before they landed on Dean again.

Dean sat up, noticing Ben’s clothes were torn and covered in dirt. “Were you bitten?”

“What?” Ben followed Dean’s eyes, mumbling something as he checked himself out, seemingly noticing the state he was in for the first time. “No.” He shook his head and lifted his shirt, showing another cut that followed along his stomach. There was no bite, though, Dean noted with relief.

“Where’s Claire and Alex?” Jo stepped forward when Ben seemed to have spaced out, staring at his cut.

“Right!” He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the words he wanted to say. “We were attacked. Croats. Back in the clearing,” he gasped, pointing to where he had come from. “With the old truck. The red one,” he added between sucking in lungfuls of air. “The red truck by—”

“Yes, we know where that is,” Jo interrupted, placing her hand on his shoulder and nodding down at him. “We got it from here. You need to go back; your mom is looking for you.”

Ben shook his head. “I wanna help.”

“No!” Dean said, getting up and helping the boy to his feet. “You need to let your mom know that you’re okay. We’ll get them, okay? I promise.” He gripped Ben’s shoulder, mustering up a smile before turning to Cas. “Can you take him back?”

Cas frowned before shaking his head firmly. “No. Splitting up doesn’t seem like the best course of action, Dean, I—”

“Please, just… I can’t let him go back on his own. If he’s with you, at least I’ll be sure that you’ll both be okay.”

Cas opened his mouth, but Dean took out a green flare from his holster before he could voice another objection. “Light this up when you get to the Impala.” He held Cas’ wrist and placed the flare in his hand. “Green is good. They’ll know it’s good news and will meet up with you guys,” he explained, watching Cas’ fingers slowly close around the flare.

“Dean and I know this place like the back of our hands,” Jo reassured. “We can take care of ourselves; we’ll be fine,” she added with a wink.

With a _see ya later_ and one last look at Ben, Dean and Jo set off to the center of the field and the red truck’s clearing.

xxx

Before he even saw them, their shrilling noise and scraping sound reached his ears as Dean moved the cornstalk out of the way. The grunts of the Croats that surrounded the red pickup truck with Claire and Alex on it drowned out everything else.

Claire stood on top of the pickup truck, with Alex laying at her feet — the brunette seemed oblivious to the world, eyes shut, mouth partly open as her hand rested on her stomach, which bled profusely.

“We need a distraction,” Dean said to Jo, not bothering to keep his voice low over the snarls that grew louder the more Claire tried to keep the Croats away with a stick, her sobs only meeting Dean’s eyes and not his ears.

“Go around, I’ll attract them,” he said, releasing the safety of his gun, hearing the click of the bullet moving into place. He made a U-turn and shifted into the Croats’ angle of view. “Hey, nut brains!” he shouted, shooting one of the Croats in the head. “Here!” he shot three more times, their bodies hitting the ground with a dull thud. “Here, you fuckers!” He fired until the gun was empty and warm in his hand.

Two more Croats snuck up from behind him, their presence momentaneously hidden by the crops at his back. “Fuck!” He secured his gun in the back of his pants and punched the two, grabbing his axe from the holster and digging it into a Croat at his right.

Soon there were too many, even for Dean; he plunged the axe into another Croat’s head, jabbing and slicing a few more as he ran around the truck, dropping to his knees as he came alongside the vehicle.

With no other place to go, he rolled to his back and pushed himself along the ground until he was beneath the truck. “Shit!” he rasped out of breath, slicing one of the Croats’ arms that tried to reach him under the truck. “Jo!” he yelled, silently praying that had given Jo enough time to reach Claire.

“Right here!” she answered from the top of the truck. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” her voice lowered as she turned her attention to the girls.

Dean could hear Jo cursing under her breath, with Claire sobbing somewhere near her, “Is Alex gonna be okay?”

“What happened?” came the strained question.

“There were too many. There was nothing I could do,” Claire rambled. “She got bitten,” she said, almost whispering now, her sobs giving way to a gasp as she voiced their worst fears. Dean shut his eyes, closing his fists so tight the nails carved dents into the palm of his hand.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Jo reassured the girl despite both knowing that wasn’t true. “We just have to—”

The blood-curdling scream caught him by surprise. It pierced through the grunts surrounding Dean and the truck while muffling Claire’s cries that only increased in pitch as the sounds of a struggle could be heard above him.

“Jo?” Dean yelled. “Jo, answer me!” he attempted again, kicking a few Croats that got too close to grabbing his legs.

“Stop!” Claire pleaded somewhere above him. “Please, Alex, let go of her!”

There was a loud thud, the banging of bodies rolling around; Jo choked out a yelp, the sound coming out strangled as she gagged and gasped, before the sound of choking returned.

“I’m coming,” he said, not sure if she could hear him. He gripped his axe, jabbing a few hands, kicking several heads, teeth snapping, and persistently open for him. “I’m coming!” he repeated before the loud bang stopped his efforts.

Dean watched, bug-eyed, as Jo fell on her back right beside the truck with Alex clasped to her neck. Jo stretched her arm out to him, pupils dilated, spitting out blood as she tried to scream into the hungry Croats closing in on her, attacking her as soon as she hit the ground.

Dean froze, staring at the cluster of Croats piling up on his friend, each fighting for a piece of her.

“Let her go, you fuckers,” he cried out, trying to pull her by the arm to no avail. “Let her go!” he tried to shoot, momentarily forgetting he was out of bullets. “Let her go!” he yelled until his screams and the hungry moans from the Croats were the only things left. “Dammit, dammit!” he beat the bottom of the truck furiously, his legs kicking and scraping until it hurt to move. “Dammit,” he repeated, bottom lip quivering, feeling his eyes burn with tears.

He just lay there for what felt like ages, staring at the dark bottom of the truck, wishing for once that he could go fucking nuke right then and there, burning everything and every single damned Croat to the ground. He took one last look at Jo — her lifeless eyes boring into him as if judging him from the afterlife. Soon she would turn, and Dean didn’t know what he hated more: the fact that she was dead or the fact that she would become a Croat. “I’m sorry,” he cried out, ignoring the Croats feasting on his friend. “I’m so fucking sorry!”

xxx

Most of the Croats had quit trying to reach him and were now feasting on Jo instead. Unable to do anything for her, Dean took the chance to crawl out from under the truck and away from where his friend lay dead. A couple of Croats were on him immediately as he made his way out. He rammed his axe into them as he got up and then chopped their heads off, lashing out at their limp bodies even after they were motionless, just out of spite.

He was about to move to Claire’s side and get her out of there when a new figure caught his attention on the opposite side of the vehicle, where most Croats were concentrated around Jo’s body.

Suddenly Cas was there, bow at hand, aiming at as many Croats as he could. Fists and boots met the ones who missed the arrows as Castiel moved lithely between them. He clasped his machete and started carving out pieces of the Croats. He aimed for their heads, slicing legs and arms when that wasn’t possible. It was almost like watching a dance. Castiel floated around, seemingly unfazed by the gnashing teeth of the undead that surrounded him. Dean watched dumbfounded as the growls slowly fell silent until all there was left was the breeze sending dust against his face.

"Dean?" Cas frantically shouted as he drew near the pickup truck. "Dean!"

"Right here," Dean said, walking around the bed of the vehicle.

Cas turned, the concern etched on his face fading away as their eyes met. Dean's shoulders slumped as Cas rushed over and pulled him in for a firm hug.

“I heard the shots,” Cas exclaimed to his ear. “Are you alright?”

Dean could do nothing but shake his head no. He pulled away and climbed onto the truck. Claire had curled into a bawl around herself, eyes staring into nothing, not even acknowledging their presence.

“Claire…” Dean tried, shaking her. “Claire!”

“Where’s Jo?” came Cas’ voice from behind him.

Dean shook his head, not daring to take his eyes off Claire to look around.

“You need to leave. Go ahead and take Claire. More undead will be coming soon.”

“What about you?” he asked, rising to his feet and finally turning around to face Cas.

“I’ll be right there. Alex and Jo need a proper burial. For them and their families’ sake.”

“Alex had no one,” Dean murmured.

“Still, I’ll retrieve their bodies and take them back. Do you think it’s appropriate—”

“Donna will wait for you; the van’s large enough to hold them both. I’ll go ahead in the Impala with Lisa and the kids.”

“Alright. Go on then.”

Dean nodded, lacking the energy to argue.

xxx

The ride to the Keeper passed in a blur. Dean let Lisa do most of the talking from the backseat while she clutched Ben in her arms. Dean held on to Baby’s wheel to keep himself from losing it, glancing at Claire from time to time. She sat slumped against the passenger window, staring out at the passing scenery, not uttering a word since he had pulled her away from the carnage in the field. It was almost like she wasn’t there anymore, like her soul couldn’t take the shock and had left.

Dean felt as bad as she looked.

He pushed himself through scanning in a mix of haze and muscle memory, and not even Gordon’s venomous stare waiting for him in the last screening room could spite Dean enough to react.

Ellen’s slap was what brought him back to life. “I was counting on you to keep an eye on her,” she poked a finger at his chest, tears streaming down her face. “You were supposed to protect my baby,” she said, punching Dean’s chest repeatedly. “My baby! How could you?” She slapped him again. “Not my baby, not my baby!”

Sam stepped forward, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his chest. He deserved this.

Dean reached his bedroom without talking to anyone else, grateful that no one had followed him inside. There was a coarse pressure drilling behind his eyes. All the hairs in his body stirred, the overwhelming wave of cold nausea making him rush to the bathroom. He closed his eyes tight, clutching his stomach as guilt and grief tightened their constraints around his chest; their vines so taut it made it impossible to breathe. He coughed as the wave of nausea hit him, his muscles heaving as he opened the lid of the toilet just in time to spew the contents of his stomach.

He returned to his room once he was done, not bothering to wash, merely cleaning the remains around his mouth with the back of his hand. He sat on the floor, back against the wooden frame of his bed, head between his knees, breathing through his nose to keep himself from puking once more.

Dean should be used to it by now; losing people was as much a part of his life as his condition was. But life in the Keeper had given him a sort of false sense of security. It had been three years since the last time he had been in a similar situation. Ruby had been living with them for a few weeks when she secretly succeeded in contacting her former group. They had managed to attack the fort and kill a few of its residents. But Dean, and his companions, armed with a bunch of weapons and protected by the fort’s walls, had managed to seize victory for themselves.

Problem was, Ruby was still inside, and when she tried to escape and return to the rest of her group, Sam had pursued her. He had explained later to Dean that he couldn’t let her run off with the book. The object was too important for them to lose. She had stabbed Sam during the fight, but he had managed to keep the book for himself before she had thrown a rope over the wall and jumped to the other side just as Dean and the others had come to Sam’s aid.

The wound was deep, and it had taken Sam several fever-delirious nights and even more weeks to recover. The scar left behind never faded completely, nor the shadows in Sam’s eyes whenever the brunette’s name was mentioned.

Dean had never forgiven himself for letting his guard down and almost losing his little brother in the process.

But the fort’s security had made him soft, and after so many years living a life that resembled peace, it had distracted him from the real danger still breathing outside those walls.

Dean curled up on the floor and eventually fell asleep, fingers playing with the hem of his socks, counting the number of stitches in the fabric to center himself.

xxx

Three knocks on his door brought him back to reality. Dean groaned, slowly getting up from the floor and into a sitting position; his whole body was fucking sore, and his right arm had fallen asleep with him. “What?!” he growled the hoarse sound when the knocking resumed. His head was throbbing, and he could barely keep his eyes open as he got up, lumbering to the door to open it.

Ben was on the other side, his eyes swollen and bright red. “I…” he started but second-guessed whatever he was about to say. “It was all my fault. I didn’t… We weren’t supposed to get far. We just wanted to explore.”

“Explore?!” Dean asked, voice a pitch darker. “Do you think this is an amusement park?! What the hell were you thinking?” he yelled.

“Sorry,” Ben whispered, drawing in on himself. A few curious individuals in the hallway stopped and stared at them.

“There’s nothing for you out there!” Dean continued, the harsh words spilling from his lips as sharp as the vines grasping his chest and forcing everything out. “The world is an ugly son of a bitch, and if you can’t see that, then you’re not as grown up as I thought you to be. And now, because of your actions… two people are dead.”

“Dean!” Sam called from his right.

“What?” He glared at his brother, the poison invading his veins too pungent for Dean to stop. “What!” he dared, slamming the door shut.

He passed the rest of the day holed up in his bedroom. Cas didn’t show up, and he couldn’t say he cared.


	11. The Resurrection Of Dead Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say I loved writing this chapter but it was so difficult to do it because it’s so heavy with emotions it was hard to find the right mindset to write it. But at the same time it has some of my favorite Destiel interactions so far. We’re getting there, you guys, this is one hell of a slow burn, but we’re getting closer.

The first time Dean left his room was on day four. Someone — probably Cas or Sammy — had left trays of food at his door three times a day. He didn’t touch it at first and only drank when he couldn’t control his body’s protests for water. On day three, even the food was too much for his hungry stomach to refuse.

Cas only appeared at night, and Dean always pretended to be asleep on the couch. A couple of times, he had tried to approach Dean, but when Dean didn’t reply, he eventually let it go and didn’t persist, much to Dean’s relief.

Dean almost didn’t sleep despite his deception whenever Cas was present; his nightmares filled not only with Jo and Alex’s bodies but also with dreams of the dark figure that only got worse as his guilt continued to pile up. Give it back, it always said both in nightmare and vision form.

The visions were nothing but faint at first when he was little, like they had been awakened from a long slumber, but gradually they got stronger, more vivid, and with each time Dean lost control, it got harder to believe those visions weren’t real.

There had always been a darkness hovering around Dean, like a dark cloud overcasting everything he was in shadows. It was always there; Dean could feel it, throbbing in the back of his head. In a way, Dean knew from the moment he was born that he had been meant for it, for the calamity to come — for the catastrophe he would become — and all his life had been like the silent, ephemeral moment that proceeds a storm.

And that storm was coming, sooner or later.

On the fourth night, Dean had snuck outside to watch the funerals, staying hidden in the shadows. They burned the bodies, even though Cas had made sure both Jo and Alex would stay dead with a stab through the head, the rite of building a pyre was already part of how they said goodbye to the deceased. They gathered around it by the entrance of the fort, its flames burning away their goodbyes and scorching the sorrow into the sky.

Dean stood at a distance. He waited until the flames became ashes, and his lungs didn’t burn for air, inhaling with a despair that matched the last of the red cinders latching onto any sliver of oxygen.

There were new streaks of dry tears along his cheeks as he sunk to one knee on the ground, hand splayed against the wall, the cold easing the ache and the shakiness. He shut his eyes tight, gasping around another sob, giving himself a moment, allowing his body to get itself together, fingers around the dark stone of his necklace.

Dean got up, at last, taking one last look at the pyre before turning away.

xxx

The late-night air was unusually heavy for June, too thick and damp for Dean to breathe easily.

Dean crossed the backyard, greeting Garth on his way to replace him on the south watchtower.

Being on patrol duty fucking sucked most of the time. Nothing to do but count the stars in the sky. Tonight though, it proved to be the relief Dean needed. Being out here on the watchtower and under the moon’s glow was quickly turning out to be everything Dean wanted — the cold to numb the overwhelming feelings, the cicadas silencing his thoughts, and the pale moonlight, that bathed everything in a serene afterglow, to settle his heart.

The first part of healing is coming to terms with your feelings, and Dean looked up into the inky darkness, hoping Jo and Alex were watching. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” he whispered. A stray tear slid down his cheek, immediately withering away with the rush of wind as he prayed to the moon, asking it for the strength to carry on. “Please forgive me.” He closed his eyes. Another breeze caressed his face, and Dean took it as a sign; hoped for it too.

“Hello,” Cas’ mellow voice pulled him away from his thoughts.

“Hey,” he said with a small smile. “What’cha doing here?”

Castiel raised a cup of coffee, and Dean replied with a broad smile.

“I really needed this,” he murmured into the cup, taking a sip from the beverage — no milk, no sugar, nothing to dilute the sour, slightly bitter aftertaste, exactly how Dean liked it.

“Sam said it’s socially acceptable to offer a cup of coffee in these circumstances.”

Dean hummed, blowing off the puff of steam coming out of the mug and making a mental note to thank his little brother later.

“Sam also said…” Cas continued, hesitating. “You might be willing to accept a hug if I offered.”

Dean almost dropped his damned coffee. He held the cup with both hands to keep it from smashing on the ground, lacking the words to reply. Dumbstruck briefly before his eyes locked with Cas’, the blue in them so intense Dean felt himself drowning in it.

For a moment, he wondered if the way the blue in his eyes caught the moonlight reminded him of someone he had met a long time ago, far away in a playground as a child.

Dean didn’t speak; his heart stuck in his throat as he opened his arms. He watched Cas’ expression change, taking in every detail, the furrow between his brows, expectancy giving way to surprise, immediately melting into something Dean knew deep inside he felt as well but was too afraid to name it.

Cas drew near, arms clasping around him, just as tender as steady, enveloping Dean in a cocoon of warmth. And if before Dean had wished for the cold, now he only wanted to soak in the heat of Cas’ affection forever.

Before he knew it, his cheeks were wet and warm against the bitter-cold night, with tears trailing down his face and damping his neck.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Cas’ breath ghosted warmly over his skin, and Dean’s shiver had nothing to do with the crisp night air.

Cas’ shoulders clenched, and suddenly it was like something warm and featherlike was folding around him, wrapping him in warmth. Dean sniffed, blaming the hallucination on the feelings trying to split him in half.

“S’okay, everyone leaves sooner or later,” he said, bottom lip trembling, the tremulous confession out before he could catch it. “‘m used to it,” he finished and gulped hard at the runaway whimper.

They stood like that for a while — with Cas holding him, his hands rubbing small circles into Dean’s shuddering back, head leaned into the crook of Dean’s neck, whispering sweet nothings into his skin. A strange emotion tightened around Dean’s heart as the sobs racked his body, growing deeper and harsher, only giving in when Cas’ mouth pressed in on the pulse in his neck. The kiss wasn’t about lust. Just pure comfort, with unmoving chapped lips against skin, pressed enough to calm Dean’s heartbeat.

“Sorry,” Cas muttered when Dean’s sob turned into a gasp. Lips pulled away, a trail of cold remaining in their wake, the sharpness of it leaving Dean naked.

“Don’t.” Dean pulled him in, needing Cas’ tenderness more than anything. “Please fucking don’t,” he rasped, nosing against Cas’ neck.

“I won’t.” Cas kissed him again, lips tracing an imaginary line along Dean’s neck, leaving behind a trail of butterfly kisses and goosebumped skin. “I won’t,” he repeated, again and again, and again until Dean didn’t feel like breaking, his shivers decreasing to a constant cadence as his chest didn’t feel so hollow. “I won’t leave,” Cas whispered into the brisk night. _For now_ , Dean thought, wishing the promise meant more than just a temporary thing.

“Thanks,” Dean murmured when they finally pulled apart, not exactly sure how to make eye contact.

“You’re welcome,” Cas replied just as low, hand coming to meet Dean’s cheek, thumb tracing the path of one tear until it was all gone and their eyes were locked on each other. “I wish I could make it better,” he said, trailing with his finger along another fresh, wet path on Dean’s skin.

“You already are,” he promised.

They lingered in each other’s space for a moment with Cas smiling softly at him, until he leaned to the wooden frame beside Dean, burrowing himself into Dean’s side. His hand shyly reaching for the small of Dean’s back, the warmth of it making Dean briefly close his eyes.

“You saved my life,” Cas spoke after a soothing span of silence stretched lazily between them. “Back when you found me out there.”

“You said it yourself; you didn’t need saving. You’re a badass… and you’re immune, aren’t you?” he dared to ask. This was the first time Dean attempted to question Cas about this, the promise of not expecting more than Cas was willing to give and share ever so present in his mind. But something about the way Cas’ body relaxed against him made him reckless.

“I am…” Cas whispered the confession as if he was afraid the stars would listen. “I know from the few times I was bitten, I get a strong reaction from it, usually lasting a week or two, I get mostly weak, but that’s all there is.” He paused. “Still, you went out of your way to save me.”

“I didn’t know you were immune.”

“Only makes it braver.”

“Or foolish.” Dean gave a breathy laugh, the white, translucent cloud fleeing from Dean’s mouth and evaporating into the night.

“Nevertheless, you brought me here and took care of me. Like you did for all the people in the Keeper.”

“Yeah? Still, I couldn’t save them—”

“You can’t save everyone, my friend. Though, you try.”

Dean looked at his boots. He tried. Dean tried over and over again and ended up failing more times than not. But maybe that’s all there was left for him to do. Life was a bitch, and ended up fucking him over no matter what he did. So Dean had to keep going, had to keep trying, even if in the end it didn’t make a damned difference.

Castiel moved, hand drifting from Dean’s back to caress his hair, fingers playing across the short strands. Dean tightened his grip around the rail behind him, using all his restraint not to lean into Cas’ touch as his eyes drifted shut.

“You’re killing me, man.” Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat. “’m supposed to keep watch, not fall asleep.”

“You can sleep,” Cas uttered, draping his arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“And who’s gonna keep watch?”

“I will,” Cas said matter of factly. “I will watch over you.”

Dean huffed but didn’t argue; his eyes were impossibly heavy, and he gave into Cas’ even breath and steady heartbeat against his side. His head eventually found Cas’ shoulder, and moments later he was asleep.

He slept at ease for the first time since Dean could remember. No dead bodies were taunting his nights; no dark figure was making him jolt awake, drenched in sweat. Nothing but the lingering sensation from when Cas had kissed his neck still imprinted on his skin, sending warm tingles along his back by the time he let himself go.

xxx

The morning was shedding its first glimmer of sunlight when Dean’s shift on the watchtower was over. Dean yawned and spread his arms to the sky before turning to Cas. He had stayed with Dean during the whole time, promise kept. “Let’s get some rest?”

Cas nodded, and they made their way down.

They walked quietly; this early in the morning, few people were out, and Dean could hear the birds’ singsong in the distance. Somehow he felt lighter than the day before watching the expanse of blue overhead — the sun was just rising, squeezed between the horizon and a breach in the clouds, with patches of fog splattering the skyline. It was a beautiful sight, Dean decided. Though not as beautiful as the set of sapphire eyes watching him as they made their way inside.

As soon as they entered their bedroom, Dean plunged into the sofa, taking off his boots but not bothering with his pajamas. Cas stood still, watching him, hesitation filling the lines in his body. “It’s not fair that I’m taking your bed from you.”

“Hmm?” Dean closed his eyes and pulled the covers around his legs.

“You’ve done so much for me already. And I’m healed now. It’s not fair that I keep bothering you like this.”

Dean swallowed dryly; the deal was Cas would stay until he was healed, and Dean feared that time was coming to an end.

“It’s no bother, Cas,” Dean mumbled.

“Still, I wonder if… maybe it’s time for me to get my own bedroom.”

“What?” Dean cracked his eyes open. That should make him happy. If Cas wanted a bedroom of his own, maybe it meant he had plans for a more permanent stay in the Keeper. But from what Dean already knew about him, it most probably meant he was avoiding something.

“I don’t want to be an intrusion.”

“You’ll never be an intrusion,” came the quick reply.

Cas drew near. “Back in the crops, when I saw you had been attacked… it was… when I couldn’t find you.” He stilled for a moment and then shifted closer again, sitting beside Dean on the sofa. “It was… It was…”

“Scary?” Dean provided. “That’s what happens when you’re part of a group.”

“I hate it,” he confessed.

Dean laughed softly. “Yeah, welcome to my life.” Dean paused, something clicking in his brain. “That’s why you want another bedroom?” His forehead puckered. “You’re running…”

Cas looked away. “I can’t afford it, Dean. To worry about someone… to worry about you.”

Dean settled a hand on Cas’ arm. “Why not?”

Cas stared at his hand for a moment before he reached out to nestle Dean’s hand in a cocoon of slim fingers with both hands securing Dean’s in his lap. “You’re hurt,” he said instead of answering Dean. Thumb trailing a cut that traced the back of Dean’s hand. “Was it back in the crops?”

“Yes…” Dean shrugged. “That’s nothing; it could be wor—”

Before he could finish, Cas brought Dean’s hand to his lips and placed a kiss against the cut.

Dean swallowed thickly.

“I…” Dean pulled at his shirt’s collar to show a cut along his shoulder. “Also got hurt here,” he braved, the way Cas’ lips had pressed against his hand, giving him the courage he needed.

Cas watched him for a moment before leaning down to press a soft, chaste kiss there too.

“Also,” Dean continued, and he knew he was totally stealing the move from one of his favorites, Indiana Jones, but he couldn’t stop now. “Here.” He brought his free hand to his mouth, not minding the way his lips parted or the way his heart raced in his chest as Cas’ eyes bored into his, three shades darker, before, slowly, trailing down to Dean’s lips.

“Dean…” Cas whispered, leaning down.

Dean closed his eyes because damn, he wanted this. He needed Cas to stay, to be taken care of, and to fill his nights with something more than dreams of darkness. Cas’ breath caressed his skin, quick and faltering, and Dean fought the urge to reach out and bring their mouths together. It had to be Cas’ choice. Dean had promised long ago that he would only take what Cas was willing to give him.

Three knocks on the door dragged Cas’ breath away from him and the promise of plump, soft lips along with it.

Dean’s eyes snapped open. “What?!” he barked. Cas had gotten up and had his back turned to him. Dean violently pushed away his covers and stomped to the door. “What is it at this hour?”

“Dean!” Sam was on the other side, bug-eyed. “It’s Kelly. We think she’s miscarrying.”

“W—what?” A stab of guilt plunged into his chest for his previous outburst.

“You need to come, quick!”

“Yeah, sure.” He looked back at Cas, who nodded at him. Dean left and shut the door behind him. “Comin’.”

xxx

Dean spent the rest of the day in the infirmary by Kelly and Jefferson’s side. He only took breaks to eat a sandwich his brother had brought him and to take a leak when needed.

It was a false alarm to their utter relief. Some early contractions that raised some concern, but Missouri had reassured them that all Kelly needed was some rest. Kelly would have to be bed bound for a few days, and both Missouri and Kevin would have to keep a close watch on her for the months to come, but they promised Dean that the baby was still alive and well.

When he got to his bedroom, by the end of the day, Cas was already asleep. In the bed, Dean noted.

Dean sighed and changed clothes to his sleep pants. He was well snuggled into the cushions when Cas’ voice broke through the still night.

“How’s Kelly and the baby?”

“They’re both okay. With proper rest, we believe the pregnancy will go through.”

“I’m glad.”

Dean hummed.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t need another bedroom after all.”

“If you want another bedroom because you need more space or because… you want a more permanent room for your stuff, I can happily arrange that for you. I don’t wanna be selfish, y’know? But if all this is is you avoiding… don’t.”

“This bedroom is perfect.”

Dean laughed quietly, staring at the ceiling. “Good!”

xxx

The sun had just started to rise when Dean got up from the couch, gladly lending his bed to the sleepy-eyed, dark-haired beauty taking all the spare space of the mattress to himself right now.

Dean wobbled past it and got himself ready in the bathroom. When he came out, Cas was already halfway off the bed. “Up so early?” he mumbled around a yawn.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Dean replied whole heartily. “Why not enjoy it?”

Dean still felt like crap on the inside, but the last day with Cas had breathed new life into his lungs. He needed to keep going for the sake of the community. Besides, it really was a beautiful day, with the sun bright and red on the horizon, with white, puffy clouds surrounding it.

The dining hall was quiet for the hour, and Dean tried to forget the fact that the last time he had been this early taking breakfast, Jo had been the one welcoming him into the kitchen, with a bright smile and a silly apron saying “Kiss the cook!” as she prepared everyone’s meals.

Dean gulped hard around his sandwich, taking a drag of his coffee to help ease it down. He wasn't hungry anyway, just eager to start the day.

“Hey,” the croaky voice made Dean’s spine straighten up like an arrow.

“Hello,” Dean replied, quickly glancing at Ellen as she sat beside him.

“I… I shouldn’t have done it, hit you, I mean.” She shuffled in her chair, fingers running lightly around her wedding ring. Dean envied her sometimes. Her love was so deep that even after all these years, she still wore her ring every single day as if not a single one had passed since the death of her husband. “Shame on me for raising a hand at you,” she continued, eyes watering as she ran her hand through Dean’s hair. “I love and respect you like a son—”

“Ellen…”

“Please let me get it out.” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I lost her… Like so many have lost their families. It’s no ones’ fault that the world has gone to shit. It wasn’t your fault…” she said, new tears swelling up in his eyes.

“I’m sorry…” he murmured.

“I know,” she said, patting his hand a couple of times before getting up. “Well then.” She turned and sniffed hastily. “I’ll see you around.”

Dean watched her leave, hands in her pockets as she stopped to tenderly kiss the top of Claire’s head. The young blonde smiled timidly, the small spread of lips completely disappearing when she saw Dean.

She lowered her head, putting the hood of her white and black shirt over her head as she passed by Dean to sit at the table behind him. Setting the mug of tea she’d brought in with her down on the table.

Dean took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, mustering up the courage to talk to her. He hadn’t spoken to the kids since he had lashed out at Ben, and despite his words, he didn’t blame any of them. If anything, he was the one to blame for not being able to protect them. And even though he had tried, the guilt eating at him hadn’t allowed him to face them yet.

But before he had a chance to do it, Cas beat him to the punch; he sent Dean a knowing look, asking for Claire’s permission before sitting beside her.

“I know I haven’t made your acquaintance. I’m Castiel,” he started.

“I know who you are,” Dean heard Claire saying. “Everyone knows,” she corrected.

Castiel hummed, hesitation filling his pause before Dean heard him whisper, “I’ve been by myself since I can remember. For me, being all alone isn’t a choice; it’s a requirement.”

“I wasn’t alone,” she added quickly. “I had Ben… and Alex.”

“But you took a risk when you went out there, even if it was for a brief expedition.”

Dean could imagine her nodding. “You must think I’m stupid for doing what I did…”

“You’re not stupid, I understand the curiosity. But the world outside isn’t all that good. There are some alright parts, yes, but most of it is filled with death and hopelessness. I know you desire more, but nothing out there compares to what you found here. You know what that is?”

Dean heard her shifting in her chair. “No.”

“A family,” he said, voice drenched in emotion. “That’s to be envied, not scorned.”

“They can be your family too,” Claire pointed out, voice laced with empathy. “You just have to give them a chance… can I tell you a secret?” she added after Dean heard her taking a sip from her tea.

“Yes.”

“For a family, they’re not so bad.” She laughed quietly.

“I believe you.” A comfortable silence settled between the two, and Dean didn’t have the heart to interrupt them. “How about this… I can tell you more about the world outside. In return, can you tell me more about your family?”

“Our family?” she corrected.

“Deal,” Cas said, voice smiling.

“Deal!” Claire repeated.

Dean sat there for several minutes after the two left, his chest filling with so much emotion it was hard to keep it contained. Amid the ever-present darkness and horror that surrounded him, it was a miracle to feel that much affection, a resurrection of emotions he hadn’t felt in years.

“Thank you,” he said when he found Cas in the hallway later, stopping him, hand on slim wrist, calloused fingers requesting permission to stay.

“It was my pleasure,” Cas replied, a smile blossoming on his face. “I know what she’s feeling.”

Dean shook his head. “Not just for that…” Dean stared at his fingers, a few inches lower, and they would be holding hands, like that day in the storage house or the day Cas first had told him his name. And then again yesterday, Cas had even kissed Dean’s hand. But each time, it had been Cas to initiate it. And Dean was still too chicken-shit to do anything that could make Cas run away. “For everything,” he ended up saying, choking on emotions. “Just… thanks.”


End file.
